Football, Calculus, and Cappuccinos
by xMagicalMystery
Summary: At eighteen years old, James Potter has a lot going on. He's a rising star navigating the politics of professional football, the pitfalls of sudden fame, the fallout from choosing his dream over his father's company... and a serious crush on the red headed new barista at his favourite coffee shop. (Jily, AU)
1. Who are you?

**A/N:** I've returned to write more Jily fanfiction because I love them with all my heart and also, why the hell not? Reviews are appreciated!

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Who are you?**

"Just so we're clear: you _do_ know that there's a coffee shop right across the street from our home, correct? And several others in the near vicinity?"

James Potter lets out an exhausted sigh. "I ought to. You mention it enough."

"Then _why_ ," Sirius starts for what must be the hundredth time, "are we trudging across the city for one?"

" _I_ am making the _short and pleasant_ trip to a coffee shop in a _nearby neighbourhood_ because _I_ like it. Why _you_ are here bothering me, I don't know."

Every Thursday, James is forced to endure this very same conversation with his worthless roommate. He tries to avoid Sirius on his way out, moving as silently through their flat as he can manage. But somehow, the fiend always hears him. Like clockwork, as if in a rehearsed scene from a nightmarish play, Sirius sticks his head out into the hall to ask where James is going, just as he picks his keys up off the entryway table. James silently prays to the Lord above or whoever else is listening for strength and patience, and answers wearily: he's getting coffee. And as always, he asks, "Do you want anything?" – knowing full well what the answer will be, but naively hoping for a different outcome anyways.

"Nah, I'll just come with." And so, it begins.

The trek downstairs is fine at first. They chat about their week and plans for the weekend. It's often the first time in a couple of days that they can really talk – James usually leaves before Sirius wakes up and falls asleep before he comes home, tired out from training – and he thinks oh, this is nice, I've missed my friend. A foolish thought, he learns mere moments later, when he's reminded of the harsh, unfortunate reality of Thursday coffee with Sirius. As soon as he turns towards the bike rack at the side of the building instead of the crosswalk leading to the Starbucks across the street (James nearly shudders at the thought – Starbucks! On a Thursday morning? Laughable.), Sirius narrows his eyes.

"Where are you going?" he asks, as if it's not the very same place week after week.

"The Rabbit Hole," James answers anyways. And it's all downhill from there. It happens so often, Sirius doesn't even need to look up to name every coffee shop they pass along the way anymore. (James knows that London's trendy neighbourhoods weren't filled with more coffee shops than anyone could ever possibly need _just_ to ruin his life, but sometimes, it feels that way).

So here he is on yet another Thursday morning, listening to the same assault on his love of good coffee once again. And honestly? James doesn't deserve this. He really doesn't. Thursday is his only day off. He's had a very hard week of outrageously early mornings and painfully long training days – tragically devoid of his beloved, overpriced coffee to top it off. James has to start the chore of a drive from his London flat to his football club's training ground in Cobham long before The Rabbit Hole opens for the day (despite his persistent attempts to get Genie, the owner, to open earlier – to reward his loyalty, see?). And while Chelsea F.C. can certainly afford to provide delicious breakfasts personally curated for him by professional nutritionists, he feels asking for cappuccinos with his name drawn in the foam would be a bit much, even for him. Though he may be the star of Chelsea's youth academy, Cristiano Ronaldo he is not – so he _needs_ his Thursday morning coffee at The Rabbit Hole.

He says as much to Sirius and scowls when – would you believe it? Instead of apologising profusely for his insensitivity, the wanker just laughs! Loud, obnoxious laughter, as though James is the one being ridiculous. _The nerve._

"Shit, mate. I forgot how hard your life is, being well on your way to getting paid millions to do the only thing you like to do anyways, at the very club you've rooted for since you were a snot nosed little toddler, no less. How terribly difficult it must be for you, having to sacrifice your fancy coffee that tastes exactly like every other coffee in the whole of Europe." When James only glares at the road ahead, Sirius continues. "You may have a real problem, you know. You're an addict. Maybe you should bring that up with your personal nutritionist."

"It is _not_ the same as every other coffee," James grumbles. He really should have known better than to respond to that particular attack, of all the things Sirius said. Of course it only makes the jerk laugh even harder. Worthless.

* * *

The Rabbit Hole is a quaint (if mildly unattractive) little coffee shop that James has loved since the moment he first walked in. He had discovered it on his way home after going to see a Chelsea match with his parents, years ago. Since then, coming to the Rabbit Hole has become something of a tradition. They would stop by after every Chelsea match, and to celebrate James' junior football team wins. James continued to come even when his father stopped bringing him to matches, and long after he stopped showing up to watch his.

He was nine then, and is months away from nineteen now, and he loves it just as much still. It's full of worn-out, cozy chairs and strange wall art, but what he loves the most is the left wall, which is lined floor to ceiling with shelves filled to the brim with books. And though the place looks constantly in need of a renovation, and half the chairs are stained, and it's a little out of the way, especially in the January cold – James has come here almost every week since he was old enough to leave the house on his own. More often if he can manage it around his football – especially now that he can enjoy the fact that it doubles as a bar.

And though Sirius complains about the trek (which truthfully is not that long at all – nothing in South West London is too long a trek from anything else), James knows he loves it too. A fact that is immediately obvious when Sirius saunters right up to the counter, his usual order already on his tongue before he notices something amiss.

"Who are you?" Sirius asks bluntly, expectantly. The girl behind the counter stares back, looking startled and confused. (Startled and confused: the only natural reaction to meeting Sirius Black for the first time.) James knows all three of the shop's regular employees very well – this one is new. New, and very pretty. She has big green eyes and long auburn hair tied up in a ponytail, her lips pink and full and now set in an unimpressed frown.

"I'm sorry." James steps up to the counter beside his friend and smiles at the girl – trying to balance out Sirius is his fulltime job. "He hasn't been let out of his cell in weeks, he's forgotten how to speak to people. We'll have two regular cappuccinos, please."

"Who are you, though?" Sirius asks again, completely ignoring James' attempt to intervene. Honestly, why does he even try to help him?

"The new barista," the girl responds apprehensively, glancing between the two boys. Her gaze lingers on James (and his heart does _not_ skip a beat, and her eyes are _not_ the prettiest emerald green he's ever seen, thank you very much), before focusing her attention back on Sirius. "I'm replacing Margaret."

Sirius grins. "Oh good, I hate that bitch."

New Barista's unimpressed face falls, now looking rather hurt. "Margaret was my aunt," she says quietly, her voice cracking.

This makes Sirius' stupid grin falter. "Was…?"

New Barista swallows and turns away, busying herself with rearranging the boxes of teas lining the shelves behind her. "She uh… there was an accident."

"Oh. Shit." Sirius looks properly ashamed for once, and turns to James for help, but James is too stunned (and embarrassed) to speak. "Listen, I'm so sorry. I had no idea–" Sirius begins, but he is swiftly cut off by a familiar, sharp voice.

"Oh, it's _you_ again." A very alive Margaret steps out of the back room, and fixes Sirius with a disdainful frown.

Sirius stares at Margaret, then snaps his narrowed grey eyes back to New Barista. She stares right back, clearly satisfied.

"So, that was two regular cappuccinos?" She asks James, throwing him a brilliant smile over her shoulder as she turns away.

All James can do is nod, and all he knows is that he is in trouble.

* * *

As it turns out, Margaret is neither dead, nor New Barista's aunt. She is just moving back home to be closer to her grandkids, and New Barista is just her replacement. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to James - three weeks ago, Margaret's son had sent her a video of her youngest grandson giggling and petting a kitten. James had sat at the bar and nodded along sympathetically while she showed him the video thirteen times and sniffled through a long ramble about how small and cute he was and how many things she was missing. In fact, he may even have been the one to suggest she move to be closer to them. ("I _know_ you love it here, but surely spending time with your family is more important than the adventure of London, Marg? You're sixty-three.").

It hadn't occurred to him that she might actually do it, and he would have to go the rest of his days without her delicious cappuccinos and the way she wrote his name and made delightful little designs in the foam, just for him. (The fact that Sirius had said "Get a grip, Margaret. He's not even the cutest kid I've ever seen. Not even like, top three," when she got teary eyed was part of the reason she didn't do the same for him.)

New Barista is not quite as good at making hot caffeinated beverages at all, much less making art in them. But James immediately likes her, in spite of her poor beverage making skills interrupting his Thursday routine. He tends to like anyone that can put Sirius in his place – and Sirius is properly shaken by her swift punishment for his rudeness. Not that it makes him any politer.

"I cannot believe you almost made me care about Margaret," Sirius says to her a short while later, the two of them seated on stools at the bar. They've both finished with their first drink and are back for a second. This time, Sirius cuts New Barista some slack and gets a simple tea and a croissant. James is already sipping on his smoothie, and trying not to stare at her too much, keeping his eyes on the TV behind her. There's a match on, and normally he and Sirius would watch on the comically out of place flat screen in the back corner with the volume up. But today, there's something more interesting to focus on.

"She's sixty-three, what could she possibly have done to you?" New Barista asks. A valid question, of course, though there is no way to explain how or why Sirius chooses certain people to terrorize.

"She's also already gone, you can stop pretending you won't miss her now," James adds. "It's only fake hate because he broke up with her niece. Her _actual_ niece," he explains to New Barista. "But Margaret doesn't like her niece that much anyways."

"I'm not sure I understand the dynamic here. Are you all friends? Family? A cult?"

James laughs. "Why would you immediately jump to a cult?"

"You're weirdly close to an elderly employee, and then there's all of these paintings – why are there so many aliens and eyes everywhere?"

"Genie paints them, but they creep her out too much to put in her house, so she sticks them all here."

New Barista stares at him. "Are you friends with Genevieve Wallace too?"

"She calls him 'sweetie' and never makes him pay for anything," Sirius says in response.

Genevieve Wallace ( _darling please, call me Genie!_ ) is the owner of The Rabbit Hole. She is an aging and rather fabulous woman who had once published a series of successful books that had gone on to become a laughably bad but very lucrative film series. With a hefty fortune to her long-forgotten name, and no children left to care for, she had opened The Rabbit Hole to entertain herself. Part coffee shop, part bar, and that incredible wall of books: it was a solid business model as far as James could tell, even if the place was dusty and old and out of the way. It didn't seem to bother Genie that the location – tucked away in a hard to find corner, away from the shop lined main streets that visitors to the neighbourhood would likely visit – made it so that business was never better than just enough to keep the place running, and then some. She had time, and she had money. The Rabbit Hole was just a fancy.

"That's insane. I _love_ her books, I couldn't believe it when I showed up at the interview and found out she owns this place!"

James grins. He didn't know of many people their age who had read Genie's books. "I love them too, but I love the movies more. Sirius and I watch them annually. They get better with age."

"Sirius is…?"

Sirius raises his hand, busy eating his croissant and pretending not to notice James' fast developing crush. God bless him, sometimes he isn't completely worthless.

"Ah, the asshole. Then you must be James," she says. "I was warned about you two in my training."

James knows he looks far too pleased at this information, but he can't help the foolish grin. "We're part of the training!"

Sirius snorts, not at all phased by New Barista's name-calling. "Her training was probably just Genie saying, here is the coffee shop. Don't serve minors alcohol unless they can plausibly pass as adults. Also, my only customer's name is James. Ta-ta darling, don't run me out of business."

"That's actually pretty accurate," New Barista says, an amused curve to her lips.

"We should know. We've been coming here since we were nine," James tells her. "Anyways. I didn't catch your name?"

"I'm Lily," she says with a lovely smile. _Lily._ What a lovely name to match her lovely face and her lovely smile. Why couldn't she be named Gertrude? Or Dolores? Or Chauncey? James could never have a crush on anyone named Chauncey, discriminatory as that may be. But Lily is such a lovely name.

Fortunately, he keeps his lunatic monologue to himself and out loud, he only says, "Nice to meet you, Lily. I'm sure we'll be great friends soon enough." His shifts his focus back to the TV. "Can you turn that up, please?"

Lily reaches for the remote under the bar and turns up the volume, but raises an eyebrow. "It's halftime."

"I like hearing what the commentators have to say."

"… _dominated the first half, but Levinson came in with that beautiful equalizer in stoppage time, and I think that might change the course of the match in the second half. It's been quite a season for Levinson – his first in the Premier League after a transfer from Dortmund last summer. City fans questioned whether he was worth the £50 million price tag, I don't think they'll have many questions after this performance…"_

"Ugh. _£50 million?"_ Lily mutes the TV again. _"_ I hate these football players and how grossly overpaid they are."

For a brief moment, James doesn't know what to say. He considers melting into the floor instead, but Lily glances at him before he has the chance, and the words tumble out before he can stop himself. "I know, right? It's absurd."

Sirius coughs and puts down his mug. James can tell he's fighting the urge to laugh. "Is it now?"

"I mean I get it," Lily says. "They're good at what they do. Whatever. All they do is kick a ball around."

"Also true," James agrees, wishing he would shut up instead. Honestly. Lily doesn't know anything about him, she's only just learned his name. He doesn't have to say anything at all. And yet… "It's disgusting."

Sirius looks positively gleeful now, glancing between James and Lily with barely contained mirth in his sharp eyes. "Levinson isn't getting paid the £50 million he was sold for, Dortmund is," he explains. James knows this is a good bit of explanation to get behind, that Sirius is doing him a favour. The fact that he's trying to help instead of happily helping James dig himself a deeper hole is a momentous occasion he ought to mark on his calendar. He ought to nod along and take the opening and convince Lily of how wrong she is.

Instead, he says, "So? That's still an obscene amount of money to spend on him." Technically, he is being honest. James is sure Levinson is a one season wonder – his entire career has been wracked with inconsistent performances, and nothing points to that changing – but he's fairly certain that's not what Lily's thinking when she nods in agreement.

"And I bet he's getting paid an obscene amount too," she adds.

"Oh, he is," Sirius agrees. "I suppose you're right. We, the hardworking masses, have no reason to support lazy and overpaid athletes."

"Well… they're not _lazy_ ," James mumbles half-heartedly. But it's too late now. The hole has been dug, and Sirius has picked up his shovel.

"I absolutely get your point now, Lily," he continues as if James hadn't spoken. "I mean schoolboys play football for fun! Why should these guys get paid for it?"

Lily looks a little confused at Sirius' sudden turn of opinion. "I suppose. Though I'm sure it takes a little more dedication to play professionally than it does to play for fun at school."

James lets out a heavy sigh. Doesn't he know it. "It really does. The hours are insane."

Lily looks at him curiously. "Are you two big football fans, then?"

"Yeah, I guess we are."

"Some of us are more invested than others." Sirius gives James a significant look, which he determinedly ignores.

"My roommate got us tickets to a match next Saturday," Lily says. "She's a huge fan. It's supposed to be a good one, Arsenal vs. Chelsea? There's apparently a rivalry that she takes very personally." Sirius takes a calm sip of his tea, watching James over the top of the mug. (Has his friend always looked distinctly evil, or is this a new development?)

James puts down his smoothie. "You're coming to that?"

"Oh, are you going too?" Lily smiles, and James momentarily forgets his dread to feel thrilled instead.

"Yeah, I'll be there." She looks pleased, and that makes his brain a bigger mess of worthless mush than it already is. "Maybe we'll catch you after the match," he adds casually. What he probably means is _maybe we'll catch you after the match and you'll see me for the lying fool I am and banish me from my favourite spot in London, condemning me to a lifetime of shame and misery._

Sirius puts down his empty mug too. "We definitely will. James will be easy to find, I'm sure."

Lily raises an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, you'll see. He's a _huge_ Arsenal fan. He'll be hard to miss."

James rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his already messy, black hair. He gets up. "Right. Well, we'd better go."

Sirius jumps off his stool too and starts zipping up his coat. "See you on Saturday, Lily."

Lily, looking no less confused by the two now than she had an hour earlier when they walked in, waves goodbye as they head out.

* * *

"Shut up. I don't want to hear a _word,_ " James snaps before Sirius has even had a chance to say anything. He has only just stopped laughing, and James is not mentally prepared for the abuse that is sure to come next.

"I just want to make sure you remember correctly – you're on the lineup for that match?" Sirius asks with mock concern. James just keeps cycling. "A Champion's League match against your biggest rivals? It was a big deal when you got called up, remember? We had a party. Your mum took us out to dinner to celebrate and everything? You had your steak medium rare."

"I get it. Shut up."

Sirius cackles – really cackles. He is enjoying this far too much. "Oh, you poor sod. That girl just melted your brain. I've never seen such a sorry sight."

"Haven't you? Look in a mirror on a Sunday morning, then."

"So are you going to tell her you're a professional football player before or after she sees you play next weekend?"

"I mean, technically, I'm not. I'm not on the first team yet."

Sirius chuckles happily. "I'm not sure the distinction matters at this point."

James tries not to think about that. He tries not to get too excited too soon. It's true that he has done exceptionally well with Chelsea's youth team – well enough that between playing on the youth team, he often plays for the under-23s and has been called up to the first team more and more often. The extra match days and extra training that comes with it leaves him perpetually exhausted, but he doesn't mind. The conversation around his future gets louder with every match he plays, the interest from other football clubs less and less subtle.

But James has his heart set on Chelsea, and though he hears it all the time – when his youth contract expires at the end of this season, it _will_ be renewed with a permanent promotion to the first team, it's a sure thing – James refuses to believe it. Not when he still has half a season left to prove he deserves it – or screw up and prove he doesn't. Not when so many other talented players out there could take his spot at any moment. Not when so many people who matter don't want him there at all. Certainly not until he's actually signed something.

"Of course it matters!"

"To _you_ , not to Lily, who will be quite surprised to find that you're one of the footballers you think so lowly of."

"Nobody's paid £50 million for me yet."

"Yet? Think that highly of yourself, do you? What will Lily think of that?"

James rolls his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I don't have time to date anyways."

"That hardly stopped you from making a fool of yourself."

"Oh, fuck off. All I see all day is sweaty men. She's _pretty_. That's all."

Sirius starts to laugh again, but mercifully backs off. James doesn't bother mentioning that how much time he has hardly matters. Next weekend, Lily will realize he's a pathological liar and a fool and will never speak to him again anyways. Which is just as well, because James _doesn't_ have time for a silly crush. Next weekend is the biggest shot he's every been given, a pretty girl should be the very last thing on his mind.

But that doesn't stop him from thinking about her the entire way home, and James knows he is in trouble. He is in _so_ much trouble.


	2. Why are you staring at me?

**A/N:** Well, this took a little longer than I expected. It was honestly kind of tough to write and I'm not sure if it's exactly what I want even now but I can't play with it anymore. On the bright side, it's more than twice as long as chapter 1, and I feel like it should be smooth sailing from here!

 **Disclaimer:** As we're moving into some football here, a few disclaimers: First, if you aren't a football fan, that's fine! You don't have to be. It's a story about James and Lily first. If you _are_ a football fan, and will undoubtedly catch any inaccuracies I throw in: I may namedrop some famous players, but for the sake of simplicity and because this is a Jily fic, not a football fic, players, managers etc. that James interacts with are made up and not intended to resemble real people. (ie. Chelsea is a real club. But the players who play for them in this story are not). Though part of this story takes place during a past season in a league that exists in real life, the results in the story don't reflect what actually happened. Finally, though I've opted to use real clubs, and try to make certain things accurate, as we get more detailed (such as style of play etc.) I'll probably make it up if it's relevant. Alright. Shall we begin?

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Why are you staring at me?**

James Potter's legs are aching.

He always gives his best during training. But lately, Samuel Aguado watches him constantly, so James can't just do well. He needs to be perfect. Aguado, who was a midfielder at Real Madrid when he retired from play ten years ago, is a Spanish football legend in his own right. But that's not why his opinion matters to James. Now, Aguado is Chelsea's manager, and that means James' future with the team lays primarily in his hands.

And though Wednesday training is always the toughest – every movement from the week of training and matches before weighs down on James' tired muscles – this particular Wednesday is worse. With the match against Arsenal only three days away, the pressure is that much higher: the better he does now, the better shot he'll have at playing a significant amount of time on Saturday. James has to work twice as hard to impress Aguado and earn play time.

It' the second last training day before the match, so they've mostly been doing exercises to perfect plays and refine tactics, working on getting more comfortable with Aguado's new preferred formation. But the morning training session had also included one of James' most hated training exercises: the beep test. Aguado, of course, had watched.

The beep test involves running twenty meter distances again and again in increasingly short amounts of time, until you miss the time limit, or you simply can't run anymore – it's one way Aguado likes to evaluate his squad's fitness and endurance. It's effective, and James gets it – but it's a massive energy suck, and always leaves him exhausted. And this time, he had something to prove.

Everyone knows James is fast. But James knows Aguado has been worried that at eighteen, he doesn't have the stamina some of the more experienced players have. With a score of 17.5 on the test that morning (impressive even by professional football standards), he has put that worry soundly to bed. In fact, he had been the last one running. At the time, James was too exhausted to care, his legs all but giving out underneath him. But looking back on it, it gives him thrill. He loves doing better than the first team players at anything, even the damn beep test. Each time he does, he hopes Aguado gets the message _: You see? I can play with them. I belong here._

So far, the afternoon session has been excellent, too. James has scored a few goals, including a spectacular goal off a corner kick during a six vs. six exercise that Aguado had loved. Williams had taken the corner and sent the ball right to him, and James had taken control with a header to Jones. He'd moved up in time to receive the ball as Jones volleyed it back, juggling the ball from his left foot to his thigh. Then he'd made a clean shot directly past the goalkeeper's outstretched arms. Excellent ball control, and a perfectly angled, impossibly fast shot that no one could have stopped: it was a perfect moment.

Since that moment, James has felt an extra hit of adrenaline zipping through his system – whether it's from the usual thrill of playing good football, or the new thrill of Aguado's praise and appreciative claps on the back hardly matters. All the extra effort has paid off, but now nearing the end of the day, James is reaching the limits of his stamina. Even after taking a nap before his afternoon training, James' legs are aching. He feels tired to his bones.

But the day isn't over yet. After going through several drills, they are closing the session with another mock match, nine vs. nine this time. And Aguado is still watching, so James needs to keep playing, and he needs to be perfect.

James begs his legs for five more minutes of cooperation and zeroes in on the ball as Jordi Price, one of their midfielders, throws it back into play. All at once, James forgets the aches and every other thing around him.

Michael Coleman, Chelsea's star forward and one of James' long-time idols, has possession now. He weaves through the midfield with an effortless ease that James can't help but envy.

James and Coleman are playing on opposite sides in this exercise, which is for the best. Though he is fine playing anywhere in the attacking zone, James is at his best playing left winger – and so, unfortunately, is Coleman. When they play on the same side, James has to play right wing or move back to the midfield. Playing a different position is a little bit tougher, but James is a versatile player and good enough to manage that just fine. It's Coleman's personal distaste for him that makes it tricky. James had been disheartened to find that one of his heroes was just a self-absorbed, unprofessional arsehole with a particular dislike for him, but he has come to terms with that fact now. He can't care about who likes him anymore, he has bigger goals to worry about.

"Potter, Hussain, move up!" Aguado yells from the sidelines. "The transition between attack and defense needs to happen faster."

James follows his instructions, running up closer to the action. "Stay there, keep to the outside!" Aguado calls, and James slows. He doesn't take his eye of the ball for a moment, keeping track of every player around him.

Coleman gets through the wall in their midfield and makes a stellar cross (damn it, he's so fucking good, James can almost forget what a jerk he is) to Miller, who is in a good spot to shoot from.

Miller takes the shot, and it comes off the post. James isn't surprised – he's noticed that Miller never gets it in from the right, this close to the goalpost. It's a fine angle, it's just not his.

Anderson, a defender on his side, takes possession of the ball as it ricochets off the post and heads it towards Williams, who starts a run back towards the halfway line with it.

James feels a thrum in his veins as he moves up ahead of Williams. He's aware of where every player is and where they're moving, as though he's watching pieces on a chessboard. Responding to their movements, adjusting his own position accordingly – it feels as natural to him as walking.

Williams passes the ball to him.

James weaves through midfielders and defenders, the ball moving with him like an extension of his own feet.

In his periphery, he sees Amar Hussain on his left - an attacking midfielder and their captain. One of his icons who has turned out to be as incredible off the pitch as he is on it.

James doesn't take his eyes off the goal in front of him. It's too heavily defended right now for him to risk losing the ball for, but he surges forward as if to shoot… and so quickly it takes the others a moment to spot what he's done, he's passed the ball behind him, back to Amar.

As Amar rushes forward in the brief moment of disorientation James has won them, James makes to position himself at the bottom left of the penalty box, his sweet spot for scoring. There's a clear line from Amar to him, and then from him to the goal. He'd seen the move play out in his head just before he put it motion – it's perfectly executed so far, it's a sure thing if Amar completes the final pass just right, and James knows that he will.

It all happens in a split second. Amar kicks the ball at exactly the right moment. The defenders move for it, realizing a second too late that James is going to take the shot, not Amar. Coleman sees it, and he's closing in on his right, but James is faster.

James gets there first as he knew he would. He's going to take a perfect shot and watch it sore past their reserve goalkeeper's head.

The ball is at his feet, he's surging forward, his blood singing in anticipation – and then Coleman lunges straight at him.

James feels an elbow ram into his ribs with excruciating force – they're both moving so fast – and he's on the ground before he even feels the pain, landing awkwardly on his left shoulder. Only after James is down does Coleman touch the ball, kicking it with a force that sends it all the way back across the halfway line.

From the ground, James blinks up at him in shock. Coleman's expression is vicious and satisfied, though by the sound of the whistle blowing and his teammates shouting around him, everyone else knows what James knows: if this was a real match, that would be a red card. Coleman hadn't been going for the ball, he had been going for James.

There's a commotion around him that James can't keep track of. He wants to cuss the bastard out – it had been a perfect play, a perfect chance that he had created and would have delivered on. It would have been a perfect moment, Aguado would have been so impressed. But no sound escapes him as he sits up slowly, dazed and in pain, his ribs on fire and his shoulder aching.

Aguado and a medic are at his side in an instant, Amar is kneeling down next to him, and Coleman is strolling off the pitch like nothing has happened. James had initially interpreted Coleman's dislike as aloofness and a general attitude of superiority, an international celebrity who just has no time for an academy player, but now he feels like it's personal. He had been disappointed to discover someone he looked up to was just a shit person severely lacking in sportsmanship off camera, but now he's furious.

James wants to leap to his feet and knock Coleman to the ground, repay him for his little stunt with a sound punch to the face. Thankfully, he's in too much pain to act on an impulse that would be sure to knock him off Saturday's lineup. Instead, a new panic settles over him: what if he's really injured? What if he _can't_ play on Saturday? If this causes an injury that would have him miss the match, he might kill Coleman on the spot. He waits, anger and anxiety coursing through him in turns, as the medic assesses the damage.

"There's going to be some bruising. Keep some ice on it," the medic says after a long moment, handing him an ice pack. James nods, holding it in place under his shirt as he sits up. "You'll need to go in for a massage after training, I'll leave special instructions for your shoulder with Alina," he says. Alina is one of the team's best masseuses. She's excellent for speeding up recovery.

"I'm okay to play though, right?" James asks anxiously.

"After some rest, yes," the medic assures him.

James lets out a relieved breath and nods – he can stay calm now. A bruise he can handle. With a bruise, he can bite his tongue and swallow down his anger. "Thank you."

Chest heaving with exertion form the session, James picks himself up of the ground. He takes the bottle of water Amar passes him and takes a drink, squeezing it with unnecessary force, as though he can take his fury out on the harmless piece of plastic.

"What just happened, Potter?" Aguado demands. James can't quite hold back the flash of anger on his face as he turns to the manager. Why is he asking _him_ , as though he had done something wrong? But the constant reminders to keep his temper in check are loud in his mind right now.

James is constantly, acutely aware of the position he's in – a youth team player being given the opportunity to play a match like this, even as a sub, is colossal. He can't show up to the incredible opportunities the first team manager presents him with and then cuss him and his star player out.

"A bad tackle," is all he says through gritted teeth, already walking off the pitch. "It's nothing."

A foul like this against a teammate in training is despicable behaviour, and Coleman will probably get a warning from Aguado and Amar – but James knows that their star player, such a key member of their squad, will not likely face any real consequences. Not unless James makes it a formal complaint, and he won't do that. Whatever Coleman's problem is, James wants no part in it, he doesn't want the hassle, and he certainly doesn't want to jeopardize their chances on Saturday.

Amar claps him on his good shoulder. "You did well, Potter. Quick thinking with that back pass."

James only nods in thanks. It's true, but in the moment it just feels like consolation, and it makes him feel small. Some of the other players pat him on the back as they walk past. He can feel Aguado's eyes on him for a moment longer, then sees him walk towards Coleman in his peripheral, calling it a day and sending the rest of the team off the pitch.

Some days, James stays behind for additional one on one technical and physical training. But today, he's at his end mentally and physically. Even the thought of just walking back to the dressing room and driving home makes him want to drop to the ground right there and sleep. Or cry. He's _so_ tired _._

x.x.x.x.x

As James is leaving the massage room an hour later – feeling much better about mostly everything after the magic that has been worked on his body – he comes face to face with Samuel Aguado waiting outside in a crisp suit. Off the pitch, Aguado always wears a suit. James halts, wondering what this is about, and waits for the manager to speak.

"How do those legs feel?" Aguado asks.

"Better now. Still sore, though," James admits.

Aguado frowns, and motions for James to walk with him. "I don't want you overexerting yourself. Go in for an ice bath before you leave today. And take Friday morning to rest – just forty-five minutes at the gym and ninety with the squad in the afternoon."

James nods, falling into step beside him. "Got it."

"You did well today. Deliver like that off a corner on Saturday, and I'll take you out for drinks."

James grins. "I'll keep that in mind, thank you."

They're approaching Aguado's office now, and James' heart rate picks up. He wouldn't talk to James about his place on the team without his agent present, but Aguado's office means private feedback. It means face time with the first team manager that an academy player can only dream of. It might mean a telling off for what happened with Coleman, but James can't imagine how anyone could possibly blame that on him.

"I need to see more aggression from you," Aguado says as they walk. "You're young and some of these players are your heroes. Forget that. They're your peers now, and I need that temper."

"Yes sir," James says, a little surprised. His temper is verging on notorious, his style usually calculated and sleek and… appropriately aggressive, if required. James has picked up some cards playing with the academy and U-23s. He's strategic about it though, and knows where to draw the line. Still, usually, he's being told to keep his temper in check.

Inside his office, Aguado bypasses his desk and motions instead to a seat at a glass table by the window. James takes it, and Aguado sits across from him. The walls are decorated with pictures of Aguado holding every trophy James could ever dream of winning.

"The fact is, you may be an inexperienced kid, but when you play, it's hard to tell. Don't get pushed around. You had a scoring opportunity, and you lost it. You didn't try to get Coleman out of the way and you assumed he'd do the same." James nods. It's true – he does sometimes have a hard time playing the same way with his icons as he does with the youth and U-23 teams. "What happened with Coleman today, I don't want to see a repeat of that ever again."

James swallows. "Yes sir," he says again. God, he can hardly speak around him.

"Bring me that temper on Saturday, James. That fire I see when you play with the U-23s. It's not just about the skill, I know you have that. I need to know you can hold your own against men with a decade of experience on you and who you may have looked up to. I need to see tackles, I need to see you fight back."

"I'll come ready to eat them alive," James says with a nervous laugh. He has been working hard to stay constantly calm, collected – he wants to sigh in relief, hearing that Aguado _wants_ him to respond.

Aguado nods, satisfied. "Come prepared to play, too. You will not be spending ninety minutes on the bench."

James can't stop his smile, only barely keeps his ass planted firmly in his seat instead of jumping up in excitement. "You're saying I'm…?"

"Definitely playing? Yes. How long depends on how the match goes. But I'm giving you an opportunity to show us how you play when the stakes are high."

James isn't entirely sure how to respond. All he can manage around his racing heart is, "Wow… thank you, Sir." _Get it together, idiot._

"You're fast, James, and you have a goal scoring intuition I haven't seen in a player your age in a very long time. Now I don't expect that you'll score in your first match of this caliber – your job on Saturday is to do what you need to do to support the team, be where they need you to be. We have a very experienced squad, they've all played hundreds of matches like this. You just need to follow their ques."

James frowns. "Are you telling me _not_ to try to score?"

"No. I'm telling you not to beat yourself up for it if you don't. You're always hard on yourself, and that's a good thing. But I want you to remember that it's a different pace of play than academy or U-23 matches, you won't be the best man on the pitch here."

 _Ah._ So Aguado is worried about James feeling _stressed._ Ha! As if a few kind words could alleviate that, even if they are from the one person whose opinion matters most. James is drowning in stress, all but choking on it. "I know that."

"It's also a different pace of play than the other matches you've played with the first team. It's not a friendly. It's not a low-pressure league game against a team we can handle easily – those got you acclimated to playing with this squad. But this is the Champion's League, it's the quarter finals, and it's Arsenal."

James leans forward excitedly, unable to control the grin on his face, even as Aguado stays perfectly neutral. "It's _the_ match."

"Yes. What I'm saying is, a good performance from you in this match may not be the same as the usual good performance from you, and that's fine. Play for the squad, help them, follow their lead. That's what I'm looking for."

James settles back down, commanding himself to calm the hell down. "Right."

"However – your speed and intuition and technical skill might take them by surprise. They're not expecting an academy player being tested in a match like this, but they also don't know just how good you are. We do. You have a knack for creating chances no one else sees, you get through defenders like they're not there, and when you run up with the ball, no one can keep pace with you. If the opportunity is there –"

"Or if I create it," James cuts in.

Aguado pauses, the hint of a rare smile on his tanned face. "Yes. Then take it."

* * *

"Sirius tells me you met a girl."

James glances up from the salad he's cutting and frowns at his mother. He'd been ready to fall asleep after training, and he's still standing on aching, exhausted legs. But it's Wednesday night, so he's home for dinner at Euphemia's request. As usual, her dark hair is atop her head in an elegant twist, and when she looks up from her task of putting the food into serving dishes, her warm brown eyes carry a hint of humour and mischief.

"What girl?" he asks casually. He knows what girl. James loves his mother with all his heart, but he knows this conversation is going nowhere good. Euphemia has a vested interest in James' personal life, and wastes no opportunity to make fun of him. It's quite rude, as she is his mother and should only ever dote on him and take his side, but Euphemia doesn't feel that same sense of loyalty.

"The redhead," she says. Of course, she knows that he knows what girl.

"So? Sirius met her too."

"Sirius tells me you made a fool of yourself."

"Why do you listen to what Sirius says?"

Euphemia fixes James with an accusing look. "Because he texts me more than you do. Honestly honey, would it kill you to call?"

"I see you several times a week, mother."

"Yes well, so does Sirius. He still texts me."

"Yes well, I am here helping with dinner and Sirius is off in some poor girl's– " at Euphemia's horrified expression (honestly, as if she doesn't _know_ ), James redirects "–well, he's not _here,_ at any rate."

"Don't deflect. I want to know about the redhead."

James sighs. Euphemia will not be distracted, he knows this from experience. "I hardly know anything about her! I only met her once, briefly."

"Well what _do_ you know about her?"

"She works at The Rabbit Hole," James says with a noncommittal shrug.

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"Is she pretty?"

"Yes mum, she's a pretty girl that I met one time." He looks at her pointedly and adds, "Because she made my coffee."

"Sirius tells me she's coming to your match on Saturday."

Sirius needs a talking to. "Is that relevant?"

"Of course it is, darling. Did you invite her?"

James laughs. "No, I told you I just met her! She just happens to be going with her friends."

"You know, girls love a football player."

"Not Lily."

Euphemia points her ladle accusingly at her son. "So you know her name _and_ that she doesn't like football players?"

James winces. "Yes. I suppose."

"I didn't raise a liar."

"Yes you did. I lie all the time."

"Like to Lily, about being a football player?"

James puts his knife down and picks up his phone. "I'm disinviting Sirius from dinner, hope you don't mind."

"Put that phone down. I need one boy here who tells me the truth."

"How much do you already know, mother?" Now James points his phone at her accusingly.

"Well… all of it," she admits, not looking the least bit ashamed of her trickery.

James is affronted. Honestly, this woman is his _mother!_ "And you've been acting all innocent. No wonder I turned out to be a pathological liar! _You_ made me this way."

"Don't be so dramatic, James." James mutinously cuts up the rest of the tomatoes. He thinks the conversation is over for a moment, but then, after some silence: "You haven't had a girlfriend in ages."

"Oh my God."

"Why would you lie to a pretty girl the moment you met her?"

"I don't know, why did you raise a liar?"

"Don't sass me. I don't care if you've moved out, I'll still send you to your room."

"Sorry. Also, I only broke up with Cecilia like two months ago."

"She doesn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because I didn't like her. Can't you date a nice girl?"

James rolls his eyes. "No. Nice girls want my time and energy, and I have neither."

Euphemia frowns at her son. "You have no sense of romance."

"No. But I have potential, backed up by drive and ambition. Isn't that better?"

"Drive and ambition won't give me grandchildren in five years."

"I'm eighteen!" James balks, staring wide eyed at his mother.

"You're nineteen in less than two months. Twenty-four is a perfectly decent age to have children."

"You assume someone will actually want to procreate with him." This from Sirius, who has let himself in and is strolling casually into the kitchen. James gives the traitor a dirty look as he walks over to Euphemia and kisses her cheek.

"A valid point," Euphemia sighs, patting Sirius' cheek. "If only he'd stop lying to every pretty girl he meets."

James glares at them. Individually, they're both a lot. But together, they are far too much. "I hate both of you, and I'm never coming to dinner again."

"If you win on Saturday, I'm inviting Lily to the celebration party," Sirius says happily, seamlessly picking up on and easing into their conversation. He completely ignores James' idle threat, already picking at Euphemia's food.

"You will not."

"Also, if you lose, I'm inviting her to the pity party. You can cry on her shoulder."

"I'm removing your name from my Instagram bio."

"Don't you dare, James Potter!"

"His name is in your Instagram bio?" his mother asks, swatting Sirius' hand away from another dish.

"Sirius wants people to know that he's my best friend, just in case they get too attached to one of my teammates." He grins rather maliciously at Sirius. "I'm going to remove your name _and_ start tagging Mateo in memes instead. He's going to be in _so_ many stories."

"You wouldn't!" Sirius looks horrified. Mateo Aris is one of James' academy teammates, the one he would consider his closest friend on the team. Though no one new could ever compare to the friendship he has with Sirius – one that they have been building on since primary school – Sirius is comically jealous of the new addition to James' life.

"Sometimes, I worry about how codependent you two are," Euphemia says.

"Do you really?" James snorts. "Or do you actually enjoy Sirius telling you the details of my every interaction?"

"I don't tell her about all your interactions. Only the PG ones," Sirius says with a suggestive wiggle of his brows. James groans.

"There are others?" Euphemia demands, turning on Sirius.

"Please. You let two hormonal teenagers get their own flat," Sirius says, rolling his eyes.

James can't believe he has to witness this conversation. "Oh my _God_."

Thankfully, the doorbell rings then, and James drops the knife onto the granite countertop. He's already halfway out of the kitchen before either of them can say another word, desperate to get away from this conversation. "That'll be Remus and Peter," he says over his shoulder. "My only true friends, besides Mateo."

"You're _rude_ ," Sirius calls after him.

James takes his time walking to the door to let his friends in. Remus, in a very Remus fashion, has brought a chocolate cake which he is quite excited to eat, until he remembers that he can't. (Fucking football. It's probably not even worth it.)

James is deliberately slow as he makes his way back to the kitchen with them. He asks Remus about the train ride over from Cambridge ("The same as usual?") and how school is going ("I need a break."). He asks Peter about his job at Sleakeazy ("Really good!" – this in a high-pitched voice, because he's lying. James knows he hates it, but is too polite to say so because it's his father's company and James had gotten him the job.). All this in hopes that Sirius and his mother will have moved on to a new conversation when he returns.

As soon as James returns to the kitchen with Remus and Peter, Euphemia says, "Hello, boys. Remus dear, are James and Sirius having sex at their flat?"

Remus very nearly drops the cake, but he manages to steady himself in time and places it on the counter. He glances between his friends (James: mortified, exasperated. Sirius: amused, as always.), then stares at Euphemia, who waits expectantly. He looks rather uncomfortable, unsure of what he's walked into. "I don't… um. You mean like, with… with each other?"

James can see how Remus may have misinterpreted his mother's wording. He can see that the abrupt and inappropriate question has made Remus flustered, it's all very understandable - but he still yells at the mental image and covers his face with his hands.

Euphemia sighs and ignores James' dramatics. "Sex of any kind."

"Uh, well… if I had to venture a guess…"

"You _don't_ ," James assures him.

"I would guess yes, they are. Not with each other, though." A pause. "That I know of."

Damn him, Remus is a traitor too. Peter, who has just stood quiet and wide eyed the entire time, is evidently his only trustworthy friend.

"Absolutely not with each other," James confirms.

"Why do you looks so bothered?" Sirius demands. "You should be so lucky!"

"I honestly don't know what this conversation is or how we got here. Please end it now, I want to eat dinner and then never see any of you again."

x.x.x.x.x

Thankfully, as the boys help set the table and then sit down to eat, the conversation shifts away from what James does in his bedroom to talk of the upcoming match. This turns out to be only slightly more bearable – James is already so nervous, if he hadn't exhausted himself in training that afternoon, he wouldn't be able to stomach any food. As it is, he needs to refuel enough that he piles an obscene amount of food onto his plate.

"Aguado told me to show up expecting to play," James is telling them now. He'd skipped over the incident with Coleman, which he'd all but forgotten about after leaving Aguado's office. (It would only worry his mother and get Sirius worked up. The last thing anybody needs is one of Sirius' Twitter rants.) Despite the nerves, James can barely contain his excitement.

"Aren't you a sub for this match?" Remus asks.

James nods. "But he's guaranteeing me some play time. I think I've done well enough for him to trust that I'll at the very least not screw them up, and he wants to test me under high stakes."

"That's huge, James! This the best. Now Lily is _definitely_ going to see you play," Sirius says, a wide grin taking over his face. James rolls his eyes, but he can't help smiling. Sirius looks almost more excited than he feels.

"I'm proud of you, honey," his mother says, that warm smile lighting up her face. James' heart swells. Maybe it makes him a mama's boy, he doesn't care – he lives to make Euphemia proud. Her smile falters a little, a question appearing in here eyes. James knows where it's going, and wants her to stop, but he doesn't speak soon enough and she asks it. "Have you told your father yet?"

A dense sort of silence falls over the table as his friends all stop eating. James determinedly keeps cutting his chicken, if a little aggressively. "You know I haven't."

Of course he hasn't. And why should he have? Fleamont Potter is not interested in his son's achievements, not if they involve football.

"You should invite him," his mother urges.

"Why? He won't come."

"He might."

"He _won't._ " Now James stops eating too, glaring at his mother. Why did she have to ruin a perfectly good evening with this?

"You should invite him anyways. You haven't even spoken to him since Christmas, James. He's your father."

"Exactly. Saturday is the biggest chance I've ever been given, I can't think about anything else. Least of all the father I haven't seen in over a month and why he didn't come or, on the off chance that he does, the fact that he's watching me. I don't want him there, mum."

Euphemia sighs, and gives a tired nod. "Alright, honey. It's your decision. I just wish you two would try to fix things."

The Potters have always been a tight knit family, and James has always been close to both of his parents. Being their only child, born late enough in life to have been a happy shock, they have always doted on him. James has never wanted for his parents' love and support, has never wanted something they didn't give him. Until a year ago, when James had definitively made the decision to pursue football and give up a future at his father's company, they had both supported his every dream.

Now, he can count the number of conversations he's had with his father in the past year on one hand, and none have been particularly pleasant. It's a sore spot for him, but seeing how upset Euphemia is now reminds him of how hard the rift has been on her, too. Her husband and her son not speaking has thoroughly upended her blissful life, and he knows she misses the three of them and Sirius spending proper time together.

James sighs heavily. Only for her. "Alright I… I'll think about it, mum."

Euphemia smiles. "That's all I ask."

* * *

In her two weeks of working at The Rabbit Hole, Lily Evans has not had to deal with a lineup alone. Customers come and go throughout the day, but rarely are there more at once than she can manage. Her first Friday and Saturday evening shifts had been busy as people tried to find a bar ( _any_ bar), but that was an anticipated crowd and she'd had help. Unfortunately, today there seems to be some sort of event going on nearby, and the trickle of crowd leaving has resulted in a larger than usual lineup on what should have been a quiet Thursday morning. Lily is overwhelmed.

Almost two weeks into the job, she has figured out the cash register and knows how to use all the equipment and appliances. She (technically) knows how to make all the drinks (poorly), too. But she is still new enough that things take her a little bit longer than the other employees. Time that self-important Londoners pretend they don't have, as an excuse to be rude.

So far this morning, Lily has been yelled at on three separate occasions, and has barely stopped herself from spitting in their drinks. And if one more person snaps at her for being too slow or too clumsy or not good enough at making some stupid drink, she's afraid she'll lose her cool and cuss them out – or worse, start crying. She had come in to work already tired from a long night of schoolwork, anticipating a quiet shift. Now, she can hardly contain her scowl as she hears the door open again, signalling another addition to the too long lineup.

"What is the matter with you, have you never made a smoothie before?" The current jerk in front of her snaps as she fumbles with the blender. He's a forty-something year old man with mean little eyes (as most of the rude customers are), wearing a pristine suit and too much gel in his hair. Lily's shoulders stiffen, but she tries to force a smile. She's still new and she needs this job, she reminds herself. She can't yell at customers.

"Sorry, it'll just be a minute," she says through gritted teeth. Hair Gel huffs an annoyed sigh and screws up his brutish face, making a point of showing his irritation.

It's barely been another twenty seconds when he quite loudly says, "Hurry the hell up! God, who hired you?" Lily stops what she's doing and looks up at him – this may just be the worst customer to come in today. The customers nearby shift uncomfortably, their eyes anywhere but on her.

"Excuse me?" Lily says, stunned at his behaviour.

"I said, who hired you? I have someplace to be," he snaps, doubling down on his rudeness. That's about as much as Lily can take. She imagines dumping the smoothie on his greasy hair. Her fingers twitch towards the plastic cup, but she stops herself, deciding a few choice words will have to do – but she doesn't get the chance to speak.

"Shouldn't have stopped for a smoothie if you were in such a hurry, then," a curt voice says from near the back of the line. Lily's eyes snap towards James at the same time as Hair Gel's. He's alone today, dressed in dark jeans and a blue hoodie under his coat. His hair is still messy in that careless, charming way that she'd admired last week, but it's damp today. Lily notes the bag slung over his shoulder and concludes that he must have come from the gym. God, did he have to be attractive and nice _and_ a healthy, productive human being?

The truth is, she would have been grateful for anyone who stood up for her in that moment, but it's the fact that it's James that brings the smile to her face. She's relieved to see a familiar and friendly face, and she's elated that it's his in particular. Lily would be hard pressed to admit it to anyone, but James' face has scarcely left her mind since she met him last Thursday.

"Mind your own business," Hair Gel yells back, and Lily remembers where she is.

"Mind your manners first, you dick." Hair Gel looks positively scandalized by the language, sputtering angrily, but James only steps out of line and stalks towards him. "Can't you see she's working alone?"

"That's not my problem," Hair Gel says, his face red.

"And where you need to be isn't her problem, but you still felt it necessary to make it known that you're too busy to be a decent human being."

Hair Gel looks like his head might blow right off his shoulders in an explosion of steam. He looks completely beside himself – evidently, he has never been spoken to like this by a young person before. "This is unacceptable! I want to speak to the manager."

"She's in Prague. What are you gonna do, tell on me?" James challenges. Hair Gel just looks completely stunned, now (finally) at a loss for words. Behind him, Lily puts the lid on his finished drink. "Your smoothie's done, you berk. I thought you had _someplace to be?"_

Hair Gel whips around to face Lily, who pushes the now finished drink towards him, not bothering to supress her amused grin. He grabs the drink with unnecessary force, the contents squeezing out of the straw hole at the top, then turns back around to stare furiously at James. James only raises his eyebrows. "Well? Get on with it, you're holding up the line. These people have _someplace to be._ " That earns him a few appreciative chuckles from the customers in line.

Looking affronted and muttering furiously about disrespectful youths, and obviously trying to convey with his aggressive walk just how angry and disrespected he feels, Hair Gel finally storms out the door. Lily lets out a relieved breath. "Thank you."

"No problem. That just really riled me up, I feel like I could literally eat someone alive right now." James drops his bag to the floor as Lily laughs, and shrugs out of his coat. He settles onto one of the stools at the bar, and in a move that Lily finds unbearably adorable, he swivels to face the remaining customers.

x.x.x.x.x

James sits at the bar, scrolling through his phone while Lily works through the lineup. He's here alone this morning – Sirius has schoolwork to catch up on, and knowing their weekend will be occupied by James' match and the aftermath that follows, he'll likely be spending the rest of his day cooped up at the flat. Though he appreciates the lack of ranting about the trek over, James rather misses Sirius' company during their Thursday Ritual, and has promised to bring back coffee and donuts.

The rest of the line moves faster, and without incident – possibly because, though he doesn't bother Lily while she works, James does look up to glare at anyone who starts to get testy with her. Given her swift retribution for Sirius' behaviour, he's sure she can handle herself. But today she seems a little overwhelmed, and _he_ doesn't have to worry about a job if he snaps at someone. Besides, he's not entirely pleased that these people have interrupted what he expected to be a quiet Thursday morning.

It's about twenty minutes later when the lineup finally ends, and James finally orders his cappuccino and a double chocolate donut – a rare treat that he feels he deserves, seeing as he's already worked out today and it's Thursday morning.

"Genevieve seriously needs to hire more people," Lily sighs, leaning against the counter once she slides his drink across to him.

"You can be rude back to them, you know. She won't care. She'll probably even encourage it." He takes a sip of the drink. It's better than last week's sad attempt. Next week it might even be good, and that's something to look forward to.

"I just started. I think I need to work here a while longer before I can start cussing out customers. Establish myself as good and sane before the outbursts of rage, you know?"

James chuckles. "Solid strategy. I guess I'll just have to do it for you in the meantime."

Lily smiles at him. "You didn't have to do that. I was going to dump the smoothie on his head."

"You were not. Establish your sanity before outbursts of rage? You said that literally three seconds ago."

"Well, I thought it. And I deliberately put in twice as much kale as I should have, and some broccoli when he wasn't looking. I bet it tastes like shit," Lily admits proudly, which earns her a surprised, appreciative laugh from James.

"So besides that, how do you like working here?"

"It's nice. Free coffee and pastries is never a bad thing. And usually it's relatively quiet, so I actually get some studying done in between customers. As far as shitty part-time jobs go, it's pretty ideal."

"What are you studying?" James asks with genuine interest.

"Bioengineering at Imperial."

James raises an eyebrow, impressed. "Wow. So you're like… really smart, then." It's almost unfair, really, for someone to be so pretty _and_ smart. There should be a rule against it. It's a good thing for him, though, because a crush doesn't matter if someone is out of your league.

Lily grins and shrugs modestly. She's nonchalant, but James knows Imperial is the best uni there is for engineering. He's not trying to flatter her, he already knows she has to be incredibly smart to be studying there. "I like to think I am, but we'll see at the end of term," she says. "What about you?"

"Me? No, I'm not _that_ smart," he jokes.

Lily laughs. "I mean, are you a student too?"

"Oh, no. I took the year to figure out what I want to do." It's sort of true. He had given himself the year to see if he could really do the football thing. And it had been a pretty good year, all things considered.

"And did you?"

"Yes, I think so." Lily waits expectantly for him to continue. Of course the natural expectation is that he'll tell her what he's decided, and it's a good time to casually mention he's decided to be a professional football player. But then she'll remember all the nonsense he said last week, and realize he's an idiot, and ask him to never speak to her again, please and thank you. She's going to be an _engineer,_ she's far too smart to put up with a fool like him. And James rather likes talking to her. If she'll never speak to him again after Saturday anyways, why not just enjoy talking to her today?

When he doesn't continue, Lily takes the hint and drops it. "Well, good for you. It's smart to take your time figuring things out."

"I know! That's what I tell everyone. Like what if I gave into the pressure and decided to just study accounting or something, and then a year later I'm miserable and out £9,000 and have to start over?"

"Excellent point. You don't strike me as the accounting type."

"Okay. Sirius and I always order in from this one Chinese place because they have the best dumplings in London and we're too lazy to walk fifteen minutes to get there, right?"

Lily smiles in amusement, obviously not sure where James is going with the sudden change of topic but nodding along anyways. "Right, of course. Go on."

"And the delivery guy, his name is Ben and his dad owns the place, so he has to work there on the weekends. He always takes _forever_. It takes him like forty minutes even when Rick, the guy on the phone, says it'll be no more than thirty. Even though, as I said, the place is fifteen minutes away!"

"Fucking _Ben_ ," Lily sighs sympathetically.

"What is he even doing, right? How could it possibly take that long? It's like four minutes away on a bike! Ben has a fucking bike, Lily."

"He has a _bike_ and it takes him _forty minutes_ to make a _four-minute_ ride? Get it together, Ben!" James smiles at Lily's mock exasperation.

"One time I ordered before I got home, because you know, I was just that hungry. And I'm driving up the street, and I see Ben standing by his bike two blocks from our flat, smoking weed."

" _No!_ On the job?" Lily slaps the bar. "Come on, Ben!"

"I know! So now we know that Ben takes forever because he stops to smoke weed on the way. Worst delivery guy ever, right?"

"Among the worst, definitely."

"And do you know what, Lily?"

Lily grins, sensing that he's coming to the end of his story now. "What?"

"I _still_ tip him generously, because saying 'keep the change!' is easier than having to count it. So yeah, you're right. I could never be an accountant."

Lily stares at him for a moment, as if to determine how serious he is (completely). And then she bursts out laughing.

x.x.x.x.x

James is good company. The way he talks to Lily – as though they're good friends – makes her forget that she actually only met him last week.

They go from talking about his aversion to counting change ("I mean I guess I _could_ if it really came down to it, but the effort!") to arguing about the real best Chinese food in London (Lily maintains it's the cleverly named "Chinese Food" near her flat and James is prepared to die – his actual words – defending Ben's father's place, Lee's Garden), to discussing their favourite Kingdom of Ashes movie ("The third one," James insists. "It's when they really lean into just how bad they are, and sort of embrace it, you know?").

Lily had mentioned that she watched the adaptations of Genevieve Wallace's books for the first time on the weekend, after James had mentioned he loves them. As soon as she'd said it, Lily wished she could take it back – how weird is it to tell a guy you just met that you wasted hours watching four movies just because he mentioned liking them? But James had grinned enthusiastically, and now here they are, discussing the morality of a fictional war between dwarves and giants.

"The dwarves had _no right_ to march into foreign lands like that," he's saying now, his face animated. He leans forward and talks with his hands when he's excited, like right now.

"They were taking back what was rightfully theirs!"

"Um, no!" James is evidently very passionate about these books. "They lost it in battle. They made that law themselves and used it to their advantage on several occasions. They can't just change it when they lose. They uprooted innocent people!"

"Yes, but their lands were _sacred_ , it's different than the ones they took over. Their ties to the land are stronger."

"Oh my _God_. I can't believe you're on the dwarves' side in this," he sighs, dismayed. "I guess all people have their flaws after all."

Lily's lips twitch. The hidden compliment in there does not escape her notice, and it makes her stomach flutter a little. "I feel like maybe you take these books a little too seriously."

"I feel like maybe you don't take them seriously enough, Lily."

Lily laughs again. She's laughed a lot this morning. "You sit here and think about what a nerd you are, I'm gonna go make another round."

"I am not a nerd. I'm very cool, as you already know."

Lily pats his arm as she walks out from behind the bar and towards one of the customers sitting at a nearby table. There's a few lounging about with their coffees, laptops out or reading books off the shelves. Lily smiles as she offers them refills and asks if there's anything else she can get them – it's easy to be friendly now, her mood significantly lifted since the morning.

She glances up at James, sipping on a smoothie, as she writes another order down. He's probably the main reason for her cheery mood, and as silly as she feels, she knows that when he gets up to go, the rest of her shift is going to feel longer and duller than if he'd never come in at all. She's in the process of reminding herself of how busy she is – she hardly has time to sleep in between school and work, and she wants to start doing some proper research as soon as possible, which means she needs to impress her professors and can't get distracted by charming boys with messy hair – when he glances up from his phone and catches her looking. It's too late for her to look away, but once again, he alleviates the awkwardness by giving her an easy smile and turning back to his phone. He has _such_ a nice smile. Lily holds back a sigh and starts over. _No time for charming boys with messy hair and really nice smiles._

But when she gets back behind the counter to serve another customer who has just walked in, it's not very long at all before she realizes all her efforts are for nothing.

"Have a nice day!" she says with exaggerated cheer as she hands the customer his coffee. He calls a hurried "You too!" over his shoulder and leaves the shop as Lily walks back towards James, the artificial smile shifting to a real one.

James looks thoughtful. "I'm guessing like, middle management, tech related job at a midrange company, has two kids. One of them is probably named George."

"How do you figure that?" They've been playing this game all morning, taking turns putting stories to the customers. James has even gone over to some of the ones who've stayed in to confirm their suspicions – and been startlingly accurate about a couple of them. (She doesn't know anybody else with the nerve to ask an elderly man if he'd had a secret love affair with a married woman in Paris during his youth. She doesn't know anybody else who could respond with a casual "Well that's too bad, Frank. You've still got time," when the elderly man had been appropriately shocked at the false accusation.)

"He's a thirty-something with bags under his eyes who ordered an extra-large coffee and no food at noon," James explains about their current subject. "Young and tired and evidently busy enough to be fighting for something, probably a promotion. Too drained to not have kids. He was wearing fitted clothes, a plaid shirt and a skinny tie. Average style. But his shoes and belt don't match, so he's faking it to fit in. Which makes me think it's a growing company in a field interesting to younger people. As for George… I dunno, that's just a hunch."

Lily shakes her head, looking up from her phone. "Unbelievable. I just googled the name of the company on his ID card, it's a growing, midrange online hosting company."

James lets out a triumphant _whoop_ , and grins at her. "I told you I'm an excellent judge of character. I'm winning by like five points now, by the way."

"You're an excellent judge of people's outward appearance, not character. Also, you're keeping track?"

"Of course I am! I don't play games to lose." James glances at the time on his phone. "I should head out and let you get back to your job now. It's lunchtime, you'll probably be busy soon."

Lily nods, hoping her disappointment isn't too obvious. His phone dings and James smiles slightly as he reads the text, picking it up to reply – it's probably one of his seven gorgeous girlfriends or something – and Lily can't look away. He's so nice, and so nice to look at. He's so unlike anybody she's ever met. His hair has dried now, and though she'd spotted him trying to flatten it a couple of times, it's still chaotic. It suits him, she thinks.

x.x.x.x.x

When James looks up from replying to Sirius' text (complaining about homework, as usual), Lily is watching him, her eyes travelling up his face and to his hair. They stay there for a long while. James shifts nervously under her scrutiny, suddenly aware of what a mess his hair must be after his shower at the gym. He pushes his glasses up his nose and she follows the movement with her eyes. God, she's so fit, and she was so cool and calm while he'd rambled on for ages (about dwarves! And fucking Ben! God, he's an idiot.), and she's not at all shy about checking him out, and that just makes her even more attractive. He's so distracted by her looking at him, he's forgotten what they were talking about.

"What?" He finally asks, the nerves taking over.

Lily blinks at him, as though he'd just pulled her out of a deep thought. "What?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Did you come here from the gym?" she asks, then clamps her mouth shut, her cheeks turning pink. She takes a step back from the bar.

James' lips twitch. So perhaps she's a little bit nervous, too. What an exciting thought. "Er, yes?"

"Only because… well, your hair was damp and um, you had the bag so…" she trails off, the pink of her cheeks deepening. Lily quickly turns around and starts rearranging the teas, just like she'd done last week.

"You're very perceptive."

"You're very… healthy."

James' can't help the chuckle that escapes him. "Thank you."

Lily groans. "Oh my God. What am I rambling about? You're a customer." She turns back around to face him, still red. "I'm sorry. It's not my business where you came from or how healthy you are."

James thinks they're probably friends now, after spending an hour chatting about dwarves and extramarital affairs. But maybe she's just polite? He gives her a playful smile anyways. "Do you comment on all of your customers' health? Or are you just trying to flirt with me?"

"Oh my God." She covers her face with her hands. Her nails are painted a vibrant yellow.

"It's very nice of you to notice. I do work hard on my health, you know," he continues. Lily groans, but drops her hands, a smile tugging at her lips now.

"Any chance you'll let this go soon?"

"Can you also comment on how muscular and fit I am?"

"I can't tell through the hoodie. I'll just imagine you're hiding your flab under there."

James raises an eyebrow. "You're imagining me under my hoodie?"

"Well I am now!" Lily huffs, throwing him a glare. If she had been starting to calm down, it's all gone now, her face is burning.

James laughs, a happy sound. "What do I look like?"

"Not flabby," she says crossly.

"I can confirm your suspicions, if you want," James says, his smile suggestive. Lily's eyes widen just slightly, and James realizes what he's saying. Has he just offered to _strip_ for her? Or… something else? Now she'll think he's a liar and a fool _and_ a pervert. She could report him for harassment, and he would deserve it. She could have him arrested, and it would probably be for the best and they would all be better off.

James swallows, and starts pushing up the sleeves of his hoodie. It's cold outside, but it suddenly feels very hot inside. She follows the movement with her eyes, and he freezes halfway. He's getting ready to apologize, but then she licks her lips, and he can't take his eyes off them now. He wants to kiss her. The thought is sudden, but once it's there, it's loud and persistent. He wants to kiss her _so_ bad.

Suddenly, the door opens behind them. Lily jumps back from the bar, startled, at the same time that James jumps at the sound and almost falls off the stool. He grips the edge of the bar to steady himself, and Lily clears her throat. "I should get back to work," she says quickly, moving towards the register as the customer walks in.

"Right. Of course." James gets up and picks his coat and gym bag up off the floor. God, he's such an idiot. "I'm _so_ sorry. That was… I didn't mean to… that was inappropriate." He's rambling again. He's trying to avoid looking at her again. (Just in case he jumps over the bar to kiss her. He wouldn't put it past himself, that would be quite on brand for him.)

"James?" He looks up. Is that the first time she's said his name? The sound of it on her lips makes his heart stutter. Lily's face is flushed. "I'll see you on Saturday?"

He smiles at her, forcing a calm he doesn't feel, and nods. "See you, Lily."

Heart thundering in his ears, blood thrumming through his veins, James turns around and gets the hell out of there, feeling like he's just played a full ninety minutes.

* * *

 **A/N:** Come chat with me on tumblr! I'm moonawrites there and on twitter.


	3. Nervous, rookie?

**A/N:** So this took forever, because life and school, and I'm sorry. But it's here now, all 17,000+ words of it, and I hope you love it. I'm SO excited for you guys to read this chapter, because I've wanted to write it since I came up with the idea for this story over the summer. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Nervous, rookie?**

"James." That's how his father answers the phone.

Fleamont Potter's tone is as terse and professional over the phone as it is in person. Before that fight six months ago, even after Sleakeazy had changed him for good, there was still a layer of warmth in his voice when he spoke to James. Now, it only holds a question. _What is this about?_

James takes a breath, wishing he didn't feel stung by the indifference. It has been three months since they've spoken. The last time he saw his father was last month – and that was through the telly, sitting on his couch in London while Fleamont sat on a Business Leaders panel in New York.

"Hi, Dad." When Fleamont doesn't speak, after a moment he adds, "How are you?"

"I'm well. How are you?"

"Uh… good. I'm good." Fleamont hates it when people _um_ and _uh_ , he admonishes James for it regularly. Prepared, put together men do not _um_ and _uh_. James mentally scolds himself for the slip up, but his father doesn't comment on it this time.

"Is everything alright, son?" A hint of concern now. Of course, he thinks James wouldn't call unless something was wrong. It's a perfectly reasonable assumption.

James feels a tightening in his throat. _We haven't talked in months, of course everything's not alright._ "Yeah, yeah. Everything's fine."

There is a prolonged, awkward silence. It hangs thick in the air around James, and he wonders if his father feels how suffocating it is too. James tries to think of something to fill it with, but nothing seems appropriate. There's too much tension between them to talk about anything personal. Fleamont doesn't participate in idle chatter anymore. And James' life revolves around his football - he _knows_ Fleamont doesn't want to talk about that. They'll have to at some point, football is why he's called. But it's best to ease into that conversation.

"I'm glad you called," Fleamont says after a while. James hardly has time to feel the tentative, wary surge of hope or happiness or something before his father adds, "I wanted to remind you, your car's MOT certificate is due for renewal soon." James feels a little deflated anyways.

"I know. I did it last week. No issues."

"Good. Did Sirius?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Another heavy silence. Whenever he tries to speak to his father and runs only into stubborn quiet, James remembers being a kid wearing Spiderman pajamas, dad sitting next to him on his twin sized bed, two hours deep into a story about the adventures he'd had when he'd backpacked across Europe in his twenties. These memories, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp in his childhood room, feature a Fleamont who wore colourful flannels and untidy hair, who spoke to James with a fondness reserved only for him, who smiled often and was always on the verge of laughter. James feels the sudden, childish, ferocious urge to throw his phone across the room.

"Is that all you wanted to say?" James asks, an edge creeping into his voice. How about, _why haven't you talked to me in months?_ How about, _I'm so sorry for putting down your dream and shutting you out._ How about, _I miss you, son?_

"Yes. Did you call for something specific? I have a meeting to get to."

James almost says no. Almost hangs up. He'd thought this would go differently. He'd thought his father would be happy to hear from him. He'd thought they would have a tense at first but then pleasant conversation, and then he would bring up his match, and maybe it would be awkward, but it would turn out okay because at the end of the day, he's still his father and he'd still be proud.

He almost tells Fleamont no, go to your meeting, I have nothing to say to you. But it's still his father and he still wants him to be proud and if there's any chance… "Yeah, actually."

Fleamont waits for James to continue. God, why is he this nervous to talk to his own father? Fleamont sighs into the phone. "Well?" he urges impatiently.

"I'm playing in a league match against United," James finally blurts. "Um, with the fist team, I mean." His father always loved watching Chelsea play against Manchester United – but that was the Fleamont of colourful flannels, not tailored suits and cropped hair. A Fleamont who wouldn't mind James saying _um_ again.

A beat. Then, "Oh. Well, good for you."

It's not the excitement James wants. It's not the heartfelt _congratulations, son! I'm so proud of you!_ he craves. It's monotone and impersonal, but it's not _I don't care about your football, stop wasting my time…_ and perhaps that's progress.

"Do you want to come?" James asks. That's the phrasing he's decided on after hours of deliberation, pacing his living room with his phone in hand, running through a million different variations on this conversation. This, he decided, was the right way to go about it – it lets him know James has thought of him, would not mind his presence. But it's not an outright invitation, the onus remains fully on his father to decide he wants to be there. It doesn't escape him, the strangeness of fretting like this over inviting his father, who had never missed a primary school play, to an important event.

Fleamont answers with silence. This silence is not just thick and uncomfortable. This silence is like needles pricking every inch of his skin. This silence hurts him. _It really fucking hurts him._ Because this silence shouldn't be there. It should be an instant _yes, of course I want to come!_

Finally, after the silence has gone on for quite as long as he can bear, James speaks again. "Never mind. I just… wanted to let you know." He hates that he sounds like a scolded child.

Maybe his father picks up on how hurt he is, because he offers up an excuse. "I have meetings, James. That's all it is."

"Really? Because you didn't ask me when it is. And I didn't ask you for an explanation."

James hangs up.

x.x.x.x.x

That had been six months ago.

It's the memory of that silence like needles on his skin that makes James finally put his phone down. It's the sudden, uncomfortably vivid reminder of the hurt that had choked him for days afterwards. It puts a swift end to the debate he's been having with himself since Wednesday night.

Perhaps his father would like to be there this time. Perhaps he would be thrilled at the invitation this time. But this time, he doesn't deserve it.

* * *

"Nervous, rookie?"

James grins up at Amar as the Chelsea captain flops down onto the couch beside him. "What, like I didn't kick your arse in training today?"

" _Wow._ Someone's already getting a big head." Amar turns to face him, solemn as Aguado after a rough training day. "That's what I've come to talk to you about, Potter. Your ego is getting out of hand."

For a split second, James thinks he's serious, and his smile starts to slip. But he catches the twitch in Amar's mouth and snorts, shoving him away. "Shut up, you have not."

It's Friday evening and, as is Aguado's tradition for the night before a big match, he's having the team stay at a hotel together – even though this one is a home game.

If James could choose how to spend the night before a match like this, he'd be at his flat, binge watching bad sitcoms with Sirius, Remus and Peter right now. Remus would talk shit about the show and Sirius would talk shit about James' healthy snacks and Peter would talk shit about Martha from work and James would talk shit about all of them and it would be exactly the kind of relaxed, zero energy night he craves when he is this stressed. But he'll admit it – hanging out in a penthouse suite at the Berkeley, with his teammates who he still can't quite believe are his teammates, is not exactly what James would call a bad night.

Amar chuckles. "Seriously though, are you nervous?"

"Um, I might vomit on you at any moment. So make of that what you will."

"You'll be fine. If you vomit on me, I might really kick your arse. But aside from that, you'll be fine."

"You have to tell me that, you've been forced to take me under your wing."

"Captain letting the youth team star follow him around is a good PR moment, I won't lie. YouTube loves it. But I don't have to do anything. I don't have to speak to you at all off camera. And if I didn't really think you were going to be fine, I certainly wouldn't have to tell you. I do because it's true, you're a fantastic footballer, and you're ready to play with the big kids."

James means to let out a breath, but it comes out as a nervous laugh. "Well, thanks. But I might only play ten seconds and I'm _still_ nervous."

"Aguado wouldn't put you on the lineup for a match this important if he wasn't completely confident in your abilities. Everyone on the squad is."

At this, James glances across the room at Michael Coleman, who is lining up his shot at the pool table. This morning, he'd offered James a frosty and forced apology in the dressing room before training – and had not spoken a word to him since. "Not everyone."

Amar follows his gaze, and snorts. "You can't be serious, mate."

James frowns at him. "What?"

"For someone with such a big head, you actually don't have any idea how good you are, do you?"

James shifts, a little nervous, a little uncomfortable – a little overwhelmed. He's used to feedback, both negative and positive. He's used to praise. But he's still not used to hearing it from people like Samuel Aguado, or Amar Hussain. James has watched matches at Stamford Bridge wearing a shirt with Amar's name on it. He's arguably one of the best midfielders in the league, he's an icon – and now he's James' teammate, his friend, sitting next to him and telling him how good he is. Once again, James feels the silly urge to pinch himself. "I mean… I don't…? What do you mean I don't know how good I am? I'm a youth player, playing with the first team. I know I'm good. Ego problem, remember? You're here to tell me off?"

"Stop nervous rambling at me, Potter. You don't understand what I mean. When I say _everyone_ on the squad knows how good you are, I do mean everyone." He nods at Coleman. "You're fresh out of the academy and playing with the first team, you're Aguado's personal project – and then you go back to your youth and U23 teammates. Don't tell me you don't recognize jealousy when you see it."

James stares at him. "Excuse me? Are you trying to tell me _Michael fucking Coleman_ is jealous of _me_?" Saying it out loud makes it that much more absurd, and James starts to laugh. But Amar is dead serious.

"Shocking, I know. He thinks the world sprouted out of his arsehole and Chelsea F.C. was founded just for him, but he's losing his mind over an eighteen-year-old kid."

"That's a pretty stunning misinterpretation of someone's dislike, I have to say."

Amar sighs. "Shut up, you're so irritating. I'm trying to be _encouraging."_

James smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, go on and sing my praises."

Amar rolls his eyes, but he's earnest when he speaks. "I still remember the first time you ever trained with us, Potter. Actually, I think all of us do. We were expecting some scrawny sixteen-year-old, taking wild shots and tripping over the ball. We got a scrawny sixteen-year-old who made us fucking _work,_ it was embarrassing _._ Like you owned the pitch. You were so controlled, so fast, and so _smart_. I knew instantly."

There's that feeling again. Overwhelmed doesn't begin to cover it. "Knew what?"

"Why all the coaches kept talking about you. Why Aguado was so interested in you. Why execs cared so much about a sixteen-year-old academy kid – you know how this club is, we rarely keep academy players. Well we came to see the FA Youth Cup final that year, and anyone could have picked you out in a second, you were leagues ahead of every other player on the pitch."

James smiles at the memory. That had been one of those shining moments in time that transcended far above the rest of reality, a day he will not soon forget. He'd played an incredible match and gotten to speak to Aguado and hang out with all his Chelsea heroes after. It may even have been that particular match that put him on the radar outside of Chelsea. "I scored a hat trick."

Amar nods. "Everyone saw it then. You weren't good for a sixteen-year-old. You were just good. Kind of unnervingly good, actually. I felt like I was watching the next Messi or something, and now people actually say that about you. This match tomorrow, it's been a long time coming for you. Believe me, you're prepared. You have been for a long time."

James drags a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say, mate. Thank you."

Amar claps him on the shoulder. "Sometimes people just need to hear that sort of thing out loud, yeah?"

James nods. It's true, sometimes people do need to hear reassurance and encouragement out loud – and Amar is always the one to say it. Amar always seems to know exactly the right thing to say, the right memory to call to the forefront of his mind. He isn't just an excellent footballer, he is a genuinely kind person. One with a level of understanding of other people that James rarely sees in anyone, especially in this profession. This is the reason Amar is their Captain, why he's so beloved by Chelsea fans and every other football fan alike.

"My ego is adequately inflated, thanks."

Amar laughs. "And one more thing – don't let Coleman get to you. I can't say anything about his game, he's fucking good. But I know he's not the easiest person to get along with, and especially when it comes to you – with the way that people have started to talk about you, and knowing you're negotiating a new contract right now –"

"What?"

"Don't be coy, we're all in the same business, we know how these things go. You're negotiating a new contract, obviously a permanent promotion to the first team comes with that, it's already well overdue. You both play so similarly, and you're very good. I guess it's fair for him to wonder how you'll share play time."

"Huh. I mean he didn't have to try to crack my ribs but yeah, I guess so."

"Can't argue with that." Amar gets up. "Now stop overthinking yourself to death, we might need you tomorrow. Try to have fun."

James gets off the couch too. "Can I tell you something?"

"What?"

"I'm better at pool than Coleman, and I've never wanted anything more in my entire life than to show him that, right now."

Amar lets out a laugh, loud enough for some of the other guys to look their way. He stares at him, looking somewhere between amused and exasperated. "You're really something else, Potter."

* * *

The night before the Chelsea vs. Arsenal match, Lily has the evening off work and has already finished about as much homework as she'd planned to get done on a Friday. In her pajamas and ready with a bowl of popcorn, she's looking forward to a night of binge-watching sitcoms with her friends and observing with mild amusement as Marlene spends an inordinate amount of time reading up on player stats and analyzing the lineups that Football Twitter (apparently that's a thing?) has predicted. They won't know the official lineup until the morning of the match, but some people are devoid enough of purpose and happiness in their own lives to spend their time hypothesizing. They're usually startlingly accurate too, Lily has learned.

Lily had met Marlene McKinnon at a mixer for incoming Imperial students last summer, and the two had instantly connected over their dislike of organized social events. Both had already been sold on Imperial and didn't feel the need to hear from current students yet again, and neither thought it likely that they would make any lasting connections at an event with stick on nametags and group icebreakers. But Marlene's parents had insisted she go to meet new people and get a better feel for the place, and Lily's father had thought the same.

It had been something of a colossal success, since hey had met each other. The two of them had spent the evening enjoying the free refreshments and talking about Game of Thrones after Lily complimented Marlene's House Stark phone case. Eventually, they'd stumbled upon the realization that they had perfectly corresponding dilemmas: Marlene needed roommates, and Lily and her secondary school best friend, Mary McDonald, needed an apartment.

Mary would be going to UCL, but they had both agreed to find a place together – a piece of home and familiarity would be nice to have in a new city. They'd had grand plans for their new independent lives, having their own flat in _London_ and exploring that marvelous wonder of a only problem? Everything in London was _so fucking expensive_. The plan had been to move to the city as soon as they could, they'd need jobs and time to settle in. But it had been well into the summer then, and they had yet to find a place that was both affordable and also not a complete dumpster.

Meeting Marlene had been a stroke of dumb luck – her mum was a realtor and had helped her find a decent place, and Mary and Lily had gone with them to see it the following weekend. It wasn't a luxury suite by any means, but it was nice enough, it was clean, and it was a reasonable distance from both UCL and Imperial. The larger of the two bedrooms was big enough for Lily and Mary to share, and the rent spit accordingly made the place affordable. And in the process, they had come across what Lily instantly knew would be a lifelong friendship.

Since then, Lily (and more reluctantly, Mary) has discovered quite a few things about the world of Football, of which Marlene is a dedicated fan. For example, the fans take it very personally when their favourite players are "under-valued" by their club, whether that means benching them or under paying them. (How a salary in the millions could possibly be considered as "too low" by people who are probably near broke students like herself is still beyond her understanding). She has also learned that there are more team and player rivalries than she cares to keep track of. Marlene had spat out the name of a former Chelsea player who had left to move to a rival team as though it was the filthiest of swearwords – and Marlene knew _plenty_ of filthy swearwords. She had to, lest she run out of things to scream at their TV.

Lily is used to it now. Her football obsession is just one of Marlene's many charms – like how she leaves homework until the night before it's due and then has breakdowns but never learns from it, or how she picks the chocolate chips out of chocolate chip cookies but refuses to buy cookies without chocolate chips. Lily has even become a casual fan by acquaintance – when there's a match on TV and nothing else to do anyways, it's hard not to get drawn in by her friend's loud enthusiasm. She's not quite to the point of caring _that_ much, but she's excited for the match tomorrow, too. They had gotten lucky with the tickets: Marlene's father received them as a gift at work and passed them on to his daughter.

"Oh, Potter's an interesting choice," Marlene comments now, obviously having come across a tweet suggesting someone named Potter might be playing.

Lily knows some big names in football and has a cursory knowledge of the sport, as a lot of people tend to pick up from telly segments and conversation over the years. Since befriending Marlene, she's even learned the names of some of Chelsea's high-profile players, like Amar Hussain and Michael Coleman. She even knows their manager, Samuel Aguado, who according to Marlene is "a _legend_ and a _magician_ , a man who has used his _football genius_ to build the _strongest_ squad in the English Premier League and has _singlehandedly_ revived my team's hopes for a Champion's League trophy." But Lily doesn't know every player, and she's not particularly interested besides.

It's enough for her to know that the Champion's League is the ultimate competition in European club football, a tournament between the best teams from every league for the most important trophy besides maybe the World Cup. She's happy to know that tomorrow is the second leg of the quarter finals between Marlene's Chelsea and rival team Arsenal, and that they absolutely need to win, or Marlene will die, because that makes it all very exciting. She may not personally care about Chelsea or Arsenal, but she'd like to see her friend survive the year. But Lily doesn't need the name of every player on the list.

Still, Marlene listens to her ramble about every obscure film or television show she digs up, so Lily returns the favour when it's an exciting time in football. She hums in acknowledgement, tossing some popcorn into her mouth. She doesn't know a Potter, but she's sure she'll hear all about him soon enough.

"I mean he's good," Marlene continues, "But he's technically still a youth team player."

"I thought this game was like, super important. Why would they play a kid?" Mary asks from her spot laying on their couch, a bowl of crisps balanced on her stomach as she flips through her Netflix recommendations. Mary doesn't get as much of a thrill from the actual sport as Marlene and occasionally Lily do, but she does have an odd fascination with the behind the scenes. ("It's all just like politics. Or celebrity drama. It's so _fun!"_ had been her reasoning, which made some sense to Lily – Mary did get most of her news from Stephen Colbert.)

"He's _technically_ a youth player, but he plays with the under-23s more often and this season, with the first team quite a lot. Usually in league games, though. He's very good, especially for his age. I just don't know if he's experienced enough for tomorrow," Marlene says. "But if Aguado called him up, it's for a reason. That man is a God, he doesn't make mistakes. And Potter might surprise everyone, he _is_ undoubtedly the best youth player in Europe."

"If he's so good, and he plays with them anyways, why isn't he on the first team?" Lily asks.

"Dunno, honestly. A lot of clubs are interested in him and we don't wanna lose him. People say he's going to be the next big thing in football, and I can totally see it. I mean he's literally our age, and he's _so_ good," Marlene says, putting down her phone and sitting up on her knees now. Even if it is about a sport she only passively likes, Marlene's enthusiasm makes Lily smile. It's cute, how much she loves talking about football – the way some people love Lord of the Rings, or their children. "But apparently, up until last year, he had some sort of commitment issues."

"What, like missing games and stuff?" Mary asks, abandoning her search for something new to watch and settling on an episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine for the sixteenth time, as she often does. "Sounds like a dick."

"No, like he wasn't sure if he was gonna stay at Chelsea or even keep playing football. That's why he didn't get a first team promotion, even though he was probably good enough even then."

Mary pops a crisp into her mouth and raises an eyebrow. "He's that good and he wasn't sure if he wanted to play?"

"Apparently he wanted to go to uni or something equally dull. I mean nobody cared about this back then, but since he started playing for the first team more often and people saw how good he is, they dug up his entire history."

"That's creepy," Lily says, wrinkling her nose. Another thing she's discovered about the world of football: fans often forget the players are people with lives, not robots wearing their favourite team's shirt. They could get extremely invasive and, in the event of a poor performance, extremely mean. Not Marlene, thankfully. But enough of Football Twitter to keep her off that ugly corner of the internet for good.

"Why would someone who can play a sport well enough to play professionally want to go to uni instead?" Mary asks furiously, as though the act is a personal attack on her. "It's fucking miserable, I'd do anything to have a talent I could make money off of instead. And then there's this prick Potter, almost throwing his away. I hate ungrateful people."

Marlene laughs. "Right? He's made up his mind now, through. Plus, he's turning nineteen and his contract expires soon. If he wants to stay at Chelsea, he's definitely going to get promoted to the first team before next season. And if not, they'll want to sell him before he's a free agent and they lose out on making money off him."

"You know so much about all these people. It's so weird," Lily says.

"I'm being a responsible fan! I like to know who our prospects are. Besides, every Chelsea fan knows about Potter, he's like a football prodigy and Aguado loves him, and now there's a possibility of him leaving."

"What you should be is a responsible _student_ ," Mary cuts in. "Don't you have two quizzes on Monday?"

"Yes. On Monday. That's what Sundays are for."

"You have work on Sunday," Lily reminds her. "And Mary's right. If you have another meltdown, this time I'm gonna kick your sorry arse. I'm not coddling you anymore."

"Stop it, I'm already stressed!"

"About the quizzes, or the match?" Lily teases.

"I'm doing what you taught me, Lily. One thing at a time. First the match, then when we're through to the semis, I can worry about quizzes."

"That's… not exactly what I meant," Lily sighs. That had been advice Lily gave Marlene the last time she'd procrastinated to the point of a breakdown, the night before several due dates and quizzes: Calm down, do one thing at a time. She had a feeling her friend would be in the same place again on Sunday night.

"Hey!" Mary interjects, sitting up suddenly, the boredom on her face giving way to an excited grin as she turns from Marlene to Lily, officially finished with their current topic. "Speaking of this fucking match – _for the millionth time now –_ did you see the cute boy you met at work again?" Marlene turns to Lily with interest too, all thoughts of Potter forgotten.

Though she tries to fight it, the thought of James brings a smile to Lily's face – her friends laugh at the failed effort, and again Lily wishes she hadn't mentioned James to them at all. As it is, after that first day, she'd casually told them she met a cute boy and that he and his friend were going to the match too. And then she'd gushed over James – all but declared her love for him, like a complete idiot, if she was being honest – after work on Thursday. She hadn't _meant_ to, she just wanted to tell her friends how funny it was when he asked an old man about having an affair in Paris, and it had all gone downhill from there. "No. I think he only comes in on Thursday, maybe that's when he's off work."

"You said he's coming to the match tomorrow, right? How are you supposed to meet him?" Marlene asks. "You never got his number, and failed to offer yours, because you're daft and because this boy has obviously done something to you."

"Um… right. I hadn't thought of that." Lily frowns. "Sirius said they'd be easy to find? I don't know."

Marlene laughs at that. "There's going to be tens of thousands of people there!"

"I don't know," Lily says again, and shrugs. "I think they were just making polite conversation. Like oh yeah, we're going too, maybe we'll see you there! Who actually means stuff like that, you know?"

Mary laughs. "Oh, honey. You look so disappointed. But he said he'd see you, and if he's as nice as you made him sound, I'm sure he meant it."

"Or maybe it was just _see you_. That's not really a commitment. It's like _later_ or _bye_. Just something you say when you leave, right? If he meant _see you_ like _I'll see you on Saturday_ , he would have told me when and where, or at least given me a way to contact him. I mean _I_ asked if I'd see him on Saturday, and he just nodded and said _see you_. If he really wanted to see me, he would have given me his number, right? He just didn't want to be rude, so he was like, see you, and then he left. He was just trying to avoid being rude. Which is totally fine." Lily clamps her mouth shut, her face turning red as she realizes she'd been senselessly rambling for a good long while. God, what is wrong with her? She never gets like this, least of all over a boy. Least of all over a boy she barely knows.

" _Wow_ ," Marlene laughs, she and Mary both looking far too amused. "I have never heard you say so many words so fast."

"I hope he's really cute enough to justify that," Mary adds. "You really like him, huh?"

"I mean, no. I hardly know him. He's just cute!" Lily's voice sounds a little high pitched, even to her own ears.

Mary snorts. " _Okay._ Well, if his friend was being serious and they are easy to spot, then cool, you can introduce us to this magical boy that's fried your brain. Otherwise, whatever. If he's not interested in _you_ , he's probably too dumb for you anyways."

"Or maybe he's as far gone as you, and like you, he just didn't think to ask for your number. Worst case, you'll see him next Thursday anyways," Marlene, always helpful, suggests.

"It's not a big deal either way, honestly. He's just a guy, and I don't really know him," Lily insists. But that's just it, isn't it? She feels like she does know him, as silly as it is.

If her friends have more to say, they know Lily well enough to keep it to themselves when she focuses back on the TV – the topic is closed.

But even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the TV, Lily's not hearing anything. As she had again and again since it happened on Thursday, she finds herself thinking about that moment, just before James had left.

If it hadn't been for that moment, she might believe what she had just told her friends. She might believe that he was only being polite, and let the whole thing go. But Lily is sure something happened between them – the way he had looked at her, the way he had gotten jittery and nervous despite being an obviously confident guy – she's sure she hadn't imagined that.

Maybe Marlene is right, and he had just been as flustered as she was. Maybe he's been thinking about that moment nonstop too, playing every bit of their conversation back again and again like it's his favourite movie, just like she has been. Maybe he is as eager to see her tomorrow as she is to see him, and maybe he's kicking himself for not getting her number too.

Either way, Lily decides there's no point in thinking about it. She has better things to do, bigger things to worry about than a boy she's only just met, even if she does feel like they've been friends for ages already. She's going to have a great time with her friends at the match tomorrow whether she sees James there or not.

 _You're better than this,_ she scolds herself _. Stop acting like a preteen with a stupid crush_. But God, does she feel like a preteen with a stupid crush.

* * *

On Saturday morning, James wakes up before his alarm goes off. He lays in bed, silent and unmoving, watching the early morning light filter in through the translucent white curtains of his hotel room. In these quiet few moments before his day begins, he feels still and calm. As soon as he steps out of bed, he'll feel the nerves, and he'll feel them until the match is over, win or lose. And then he'll be either devastated or elated. But right now, he just watches the sun through his windows, savouring these last few minutes of calm.

At exactly 7:17 AM, Fergie's voice rings out through the room.

 _Let's get it started, in heeeeeere…_

James sits up and gets out of bed. It's like his body is waiting for this movement before telling his brain: _Okay, I'm awake. Now fuck me up._

The nerves hit instantly. He feels it in the pit of his stomach, in the tips of his fingers.

But James has done this enough times now to know how to deal with it. It's never been quite as important, quite as big as this day is. But he knows what to do.

 _Let's get it started, let's get it started in heeeere..._

God, what an anthem. Clichés become clichés for a reason, and this iconic anthem is proof of that. Is there a more inspirational group than the Black Eyed Peas? Not in this generation. (Match Day James is such a prick, and he knows it, but he doesn't care. Match Day James _wins_ , and that's all that matters).

James doesn't have to meet the team for breakfast for another two hours, so when Let's Get It Started ends, he plays his Match Day playlist and heads into the shower. What better way to start his day than to sing Bad Blood (the Kendrick Lamar version, thank you very much) at the top of his lungs under scalding hot water? Fucking Arsenal has no idea what's coming. Don't they know, if he has a vengeful Taylor Swift on his side, they don't stand a chance? What fools!

Twenty-five minutes later, he's halfway to a prune and passionately singing " _This is ten percent luck, twenty percent skill, fifteen percent concentrated power of will – "_ when he's interrupted by his phone ringing. Right on time.

James turns off the water, wraps a towel around his waist, and answers the phone on the final ring.

"Good, you haven't slept in," Sirius says by way of greeting.

"I haven't slept in since I was fifteen, get a grip."

"How do you feel?"

"Excited. Haven't thrown up yet. So far, so good."

There's some commotion in the background, Sirius yelling at someone to shut up, and then, "Fine! You're on speaker."

"Hi James, good luck today!" That's Peter's voice.

James grins. "Thanks Pete!"

"Tell Michael Coleman I said hi."

Sirius sighs in annoyance. "Come _on_ , Pete. We hate Coleman, remember?"

"I thought we were over it!"

"Why would we be over it?"

"Because he scored the winning goal last week."

"Who cares?"

"Um, we're all Chelsea fans, aren't we?"

"Yes, because _James_ plays for Chelsea, and Coleman hates James, therefore, we hate Coleman. Honestly Pete, keep up."

"Well I disagree, but fine, tell Michael Coleman I said fuck you."

James chuckles happily. Is there a better sound than his idiot friends bickering over hating people who hate him? "Sure, Pete. Is Remus here yet?"

"No, he's meeting us at the stadium. Mum too," Sirius says.

"Okay. I'll see you guys after the match, then."

"Yeah. And it better not be as a loser." No match day could truly begin without Sirius vaguely threatening him.

James rolls his eyes. "Encouraging as always. Thanks, mate."

"You're welcome. But good luck for real, I'm going to cry if we don't win the Champion's League this year and – "

"Thanks, bye!" and James hangs up.

He hits play again.

 _Jumpman, Jumpman, Jumpman, them boys up to something…_

x.x.x.x.x

"Hi, mummy."

There's a smile in Euphemia's voice. "Hello, James. How do you feel?"

"Nervous."

"You'll be fantastic, like you always are."

"You're only saying that because you birthed me."

"You could say 'because you're my mother' like a normal child, you know."

"It's match day, mother. It calls for drama."

"What _doesn't_ call for drama where you're concerned?"

"I did not call you to be criticized, mother. I called to be doted upon and praised."

"I tried. Then you said the word _birthed._ "

"Sorry. I'm ready for my praise now."

"You've worked hard, and you've earned Samuel Aguado's confidence for a reason. You're going to be fine." Euphemia pauses. "And I didn't _birth_ a loser."

"That is true. Will you still love me if I lose?"

"No. Good luck, darling."

James sighs, but he's smiling. "Thank you, mother."

He hits play.

 _I got, I got, I got, I got, loyalty, got royalty inside my DNA…_

x.x.x.x.x

James has his headphones in all through breakfast. On the bus ride to Stamford Bridge with the team. As they wave to cheering fans waiting outside the stadium. As he changes into a warm up kit.

He knows it's silly, but James starts every match warming up in the shirt he wore for his very first match with the first team. When it had started to wear out, his old number 23 beginning to fade, he'd been told he couldn't wear it anymore. PR didn't want a Chelsea player ever seen in a worn-out shirt, even during warm up. But he'd insisted on keeping it, claimed he _needed_ it. He had gotten away with just having the number reprinted, because luckily, silly superstitions and pre-match rituals are accepted in sport.

He has his headphones in as they warm up – fans are already starting to fill up the seats, and it's best for him not to hear anything. He needs to focus, he doesn't have the doughtiness of some of his teammates quite yet.

He knows Sirius, Remus, and Peter have arrived when out of the corner of his eye, he spots a big blue banner with his face on it – thankfully an appropriate picture, probably because his mother is with them. All four of them are wearing Chelsea shirts customized with his name and his number 17, though his shirt isn't sold in the official shop yet – he's not officially a first team player. He can _feel_ his heart swell at the sight. He doesn't know what he's ever done to deserve friends like them or a mother like his, but he wants to make them proud to be the first people to wear his shirt at Stamford Bridge. James waves at them, then gets back to his warm up, that thought carrying him through to the start of the match.

And then, there's only the match.

* * *

Lily has never been to a proper football match before. She had been to her school team's matches, and seen some local teams play for charity events. But she has never seen top tier teams play in person before.

She understands the appeal even before the match begins.

Outside the stadium, it feels like a festival. There are performers and vendors and music and people dressed up, a palpable energy hanging in the air. But _inside_ , it is like nothing she's ever seen before. Most of the stadium is dressed in Chelsea's blue, being that the match is at Chelsea's stadium, but there is a sea of red in the away fans section.

Fans had already been chanting when Lily and her friends had arrived, synchronized claps and shouts of _CHELSEA, CHELSEA, CHELSEA_ ringing through the stadium. One entire section of seats is covered in a massive banner with the Chelsea crest and _PRIDE OF LONDON_ written on it. Fans wave flags as they chant and sing and stomp and clap - and that's all before the players have even walked out.

The walkout itself is a production. There is music and flags and _flames_ , the chanting and clapping reaching a deafening volume as each team's starting eleven walks out onto the pitch. Lily finds herself melting into the frenzy, clapping and chanting along with Marlene. Even Mary can't ignore the energy in the stadium.

Lily had laughed, and Mary had groaned as Marlene had reiterated again the importance of the match on the underground – but she understands now, how every single person here knows that this match is everything. That in this moment, this match is the most important thing in the world.

And then the game begins. Every bit of energy is now tension, now tangible, forty thousand people all desperate for a win.

x.x.x.x.x

"HOW IS THAT NOT AT LEAST A YELLOW, YOU WORTHLESS HEAP OF WASTED FLESH," Marlene is screaming next to Lily. Her voice is drowned out by the roar of furious Chelsea fans, but Lily ducks her head anyways. Marlene's commentary is helpful and entertaining for people like her and Mary, who don't know how to spot an offside and aren't sure why sometimes the ball gets thrown in from the corner, but it's also embarrassing in moments like this. This time, her wrath is directed at the referee, who is refusing to card the Arsenal player who just (apparently) fouled a Chelsea player Lily also doesn't know the name of. Lily, personally, can't be sure – she had just seen two men running for the ball and one of them falling, but the blue side of the stadium is quite decided.

On the pitch, players are arguing with the referee, who Lily feels quite sorry for. Honestly, he's only doing his job. One player is starting to get a little too worked up, ready to get up in the ref's face, but Amar Hussain, who Lily recognizes from magazine covers and TV spots, holds him back. He's wearing the captain armband, and Lily knows you can get carded for harassing a referee. _Good captaining, Hussain,_ she thinks. _You're very cute._

Eventually, the commotion settles and play resumes. Mary sighs in disappointment. "I was hoping for a fist fight."

Lily laughs, but she understands the frustration the fans are feeling. The score is tied 1-1. It has been for a while now, and everyone is on edge.

x.x.x.x.x

"The first half has a huge impact on how the rest of the match goes," Marlene is explaining to them some time later, scandalized by Lily insisting there's still plenty of time to go, even if there is only a few minutes left in the first half. "If we score now, we're all set for – holy shit holy shit holy shit it's going to happen, he's going to score!"

Michael Coleman, another player Lily recognizes, is making his way up the pitch, weaving through red clad players. Another chant begins on their side of the crowd – Lily can't make out all the words, but she hears " _COLEMAN, HE'S WORTH FOUR MEN"_ and more " _CHELSEA, CHELSEA, CHELSEA"._ It's kind of amazing to her, how tens of thousands of people can suddenly start singing and clapping in sync, their excitement absolutely contagious.

There's a collective groan on the blue side of the stadium and cheering from the smaller red section as the Arsenal goalie blocks his shot and kicks the ball off their side. Another Chelsea player is shouting something at Coleman – Lily is too far away to make out what he says, but listening closely and watching his lips, she thinks Coleman tells him to " _Shut up and play football."_

Mary nudges her. "Did you see that? Number 8 was right there, Coleman could have passed to him. I think that's what they're pissed about. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!"

The fans in front of them turn around to glare at her, but Lily doesn't have time to apologize – so quickly it takes everyone by surprise, Oni (an Arsenal player Lily recognizes from their national team – that's three already, look at her go!) has the ball and gets past Chelsea's defence like they're not even there. He takes a crazy shot from way out – so hard, Lily winces at the loud _crack_ of his foot hitting the ball – and the Arsenal fans erupt into chaos as the ball hits the back of Chelsea's goal. Oni runs to the corner of the field, falling to his knees in celebration. His teammates pile on top of him, elation on all of their faces.

Lily understands after that, how the first half might decide the second. She vaguely remembers the match James had been watching on the day she met him, the commentator saying Levinson's equalizer would change the course of the match. It had – his team had played better in the second half and had ultimately won. (So far, she has not seen James or Sirius. So it had just been a polite _maybe we'll see you there_ , and that's fine. She's having fun anyways. Really.)

Now, though they try to keep up the atmosphere, the fans are deflated. And the Chelsea players… exhausted after more than forty minutes of play and deflated after a tie-breaking goal by the other team, seem to just be waiting for time to run out.

* * *

The Chelsea dressing room at halftime is possibly the most stressful environment James has ever been in, and he lived with Fleamont Potter for eighteen years.

Once, James had sat in his father's office, awkward and embarrassed, as an impromptu meeting had broken out when an executive had walked in to share some unpleasant news: Katy Perry, one of their brand ambassadors, had been caught on camera saying she was allergic to a Sleakeazy product and hated a new collection that she had done adverts for. His father had been furious – at the news, that he had been interrupted, that an issue so trivial had been brought to him at all, as if it was his problem to deal with – and he had not been shy about that fact. James had never seen grown men look so flustered.

This is maybe not quite as dramatic in the grand scheme of things – there have been many halftime conversations while they've been the losing side. But this is one of the more important matches, and the _most_ important James has ever personally been a part of, and so it is the most stressful.

Aguado is furious, too – mostly at the way their defense had fallen apart towards the end of the half, but the rest of them aren't spared, either. They needed to tie 1-1 at the very least to make it through – now they need two goals in the second half, and that's if they can keep Arsenal from scoring again.

"You looked like a bunch of school boys, sulking about the pitch like those men just took your lunch money. You are _professionals_. When we're winning, we play to win. When we're tied, we play to win. When we're losing, _we play to win_ , understand?"

There's mumbled agreement from the players. James is almost glad he hasn't played yet.

"Williams, I'm pulling you back. Their three-one at the front is running circles around our defense – I need you closer to the back, close out the gap when they're attacking and move up when they're defending," Aguado continues, now working on correcting where they had been lacking.

"And someone tell Coleman he's not the only man on the pitch, yeah?" Jordi Price throws in. There are some chuckles from the other players, and James can't help his grin, but Coleman doesn't look pleased.

"If you could score a goal, I'd have passed to you," Coleman snaps.

"And how many have you scored today, Mikey?" Price fires back.

" _Enough_ ," Amar shouts over them both.

Aguado rubs at his eyes, muttering under his breath. "Children, honestly." Then he fixes the two with a look James would not want to be on the receiving end of. "Price, stay between Coleman and Hussain, you work best there. When they search for you, they need to know where to look. And Coleman, the next time you take a bad shot instead of making a decent pass, you're coming off. Now are you ready to play like men, or not?"

Amar jumps up on a bench. "CHELSEA!"

The team yells back "CHELSEA!" in unison, and James feels a chill run through him. He still, _still_ , can't believe he's a part of this.

"This is the Champion's League. Let's get out there and play like champions!" Amar yells, and the team's chants of _CHELSEA! CHELSEA!_ carry them back out to the pitch, where the fans take over.

As the second half kicks off, the fans are re-energized, and their chants vibrate through him. James is more desperate to play than ever. This is the only part about playing on the first team that he doesn't like: he always starts on the bench. He understands, of course. He knows it'll take some time to make starting lineup – at the very least, he'll need a permanent spot on the first team to begin with – but he's still restless while he waits.

Restless from watching, restless from sitting still… restless because, if he's being honest, he thinks he can do better. He thinks he can _help_. Arsenal's 4-2-3-1 is clever, their attack and midfield melding together seamlessly while their striker never strays too far from the goal. But he's noticing how Gerard always strays a little too far left, a little too far up – to act as a channel to Oni, of course – but it's the perfect opening if someone were tricky enough, quick enough to take it...

"What do you see, Potter?" Aguado asks him.

James glances at him, a little startled at the question. He's too restless to sit in his seat anymore, constantly wandering up to the sidelines. But so far, Aguado has been solely focused on the players on the pitch. What had he noticed about him that made him ask?

James points at Gerard. "Him. I'm seeing how… wait for it… see? Look at the space he leaves, between himself and Garcia when they shift to defense."

"Hm. And?"

"I can get in there. I'm the only one fast enough." _Let me play, let me play, let me fucking play._

Aguado nods. "But not yet."

James sighs impatiently, but he doesn't argue.

x.x.x.x.x

" _God dammit, Coleman,"_ James mumbles under his breath. Coleman is world class, but sometimes he makes it difficult to see. It's almost ridiculous, but sometimes, he's _too_ good on his own. He expects everyone else to keep up with him, doesn't give enough cues for the others to follow, then gets frustrated when a play falls through. He's tried the same move twice now, but he should have seen it the first time – if he pushes Miller too far up, he can't get back out of the web of defenders fast enough.

"What did you see that they didn't?" Aguado asks him again.

"If he crossed while Miller was in front of Collins and Jones, he would have had time to slip past before they closed in. He waited too long – I mean this usually works, but I think they're anticipating his move this time and close in too fast."

"How do you see things like that so quickly, Potter?"

James shrugs, and answer honestly: "I don't know. I just do."

"Get ready to go on," Aguado says. "You're subbing on for Coleman."

James' stomach lurches. "What? _Now?"_

Aguado raises an eyebrow at him. "Do you not want to play?"

"No! I mean, yes, of course I do. I just wasn't expecting – okay. I'm… okay." James clamps his mouth shut. Aguado gives him one of his rare smiles and claps him on the back as he walks back to his seat to fix his boots and pull off his jacket. It's barely fifteen minutes into the half – he's going to have a full thirty minutes, at least. He had expected to be a last-minute substitution, a last-ditch effort to see if he could make a difference in a stagnant match. Maybe ten minutes at most. But this… he's stunned.

The February air is cold, a shock against his skin as he pulls off his jacket, but James appreciates it in the moment. It pulls him out of his daze, grounds him as Aguado starts giving him instructions. "…front and center when there's a corner. Use the space Gerard and Garcia leave. Work with Amar, you know how to communicate with him. And keep on top of that transition when you need to play defensively."

James nods, bouncing on his feet. At some point, Aguado must have requested the substitution, but James misses it. A too short moment later – _fuck, is he even ready? Shut up. Of course you're ready –_ he sees a furious Coleman coming towards him. He hears his name announced to the stadium – _Number 17, James Potter –_ vaguely registers his face on the screens at either end of the stadium as he waits to go on, watches as his ecstatic friends finally hold up their banner, jumping up and down. It doesn't surprise him when Coleman shoves past him instead of high-fiving him as he comes off the pitch, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care what Coleman is yelling behind him, he only cares that it's the Champion's League quarter-finals and they're losing 2-1 to Arsenal at Stamford Bridge and he's wearing a Chelsea shirt with his name on it and he's going to _play_.

James steps onto the pitch.

In the years to come, he will look back on this moment as the one that changed his life forever.

* * *

"That's him."

Lily watches, stunned, as Number 17 runs onto the pitch. He isn't wearing his glasses, and he doesn't have that ever present smile on his face – but it's undoubtedly him, chaotic hair and sharp jawline and perfect forearms and all.

"Who?" Mary asks, watching him on the screen at the end of the stadium. "I take back what I said about Potter being an ungrateful prick, by the way. He's cute as fuck."

"That's _him!_ " Lily says again. "James. _My_ James!"

Marlene stares at her. "Coffee Shop James?" Her eyes widen as Lily nods. "Coffee Shop James is _James Potter?_ Why the hell didn't you tell me!?"

"I didn't know! I didn't know who James Potter was until right now, and I didn't know Coffee Shop James' name was Potter."

Mary points at some seats right by the pitch. "I'm guessing those are his friends?"

Lily follows Mary's gaze and spots a giant banner with James' face on it. She can't make out their faces from this far, but she thinks the tall, dark haired one in the middle might be Sirius.

"I can't believe this. You're going to date a footballer! A _Chelsea_ footballer!" Marlene is all but squealing.

Lily balks at that. "Says _who?"_

"Says me. Lily, _please_. Do it for _me."_

"Um, I told him I hate football players the first time I met him." Suddenly, James and Sirius' odd behaviour that day makes sense. She'd told a professional football player that she hated professional football players, that they were overpaid and did nothing but kick a ball around and… Lily groans.

"You did _what?"_ Marlene grabs Lily's shoulders. _"_ Why would you do that?"

Mary is cackling. Really _cackling_. " _Of course_ you did. Why wouldn't you rant to a stranger about hating football players?" She grins widely at Lily. "And why wouldn't that stranger turn out to be one himself?" She laughs again, clearly thrilled. "That is so like you. Your life is hilarious."

"Shut up! No wonder the poor guy wouldn't tell me what he did… I insulted his profession as soon as I met him."

"We can deal with your stupidity later," Marlene cuts in, turning her attention back to the match. Lily turns back to the match too, now with renewed interest.

In a word, James Potter is… _electric._ Lily would have followed only him regardless – she knows herself, and she knows that with James out there, she can't even pretend she cares about any other player, who is she even trying to kid? – but as soon as he joins the game, it starts to revolve around him.

Coffee Shop James is bright and confident and funny and sweet – but football player James Potter is intense and fast and focused and she's not even a huge football fan but watching him play makes her heart race. His movements are quick and sharp and fluid. Even to her untrained eye, he's skilled beyond his years, and if Marlene hadn't told her last night that he is a youth player – still only _eighteen, holy shit –_ she would never guess it. James Potter is _electric._

He picks up on his teammates' cues instantly, meeting each of their movements with one of his own. He spots gaps Lily would never think to look for and zips through them at lightning speed. He seems perfectly aware of everything and everyone around him, so confident in the way he plays, it's breathtaking. Marlene had called him a prodigy – Lily gets it instantly, why he's considered the best youth player in Europe, why other clubs already want him. She hears it in the hum of the revived Chelsea crowd, sees it in their interest and excitement at the new addition – they had been disappointed to see Coleman go, but he's forgotten now, because it's so so _obvious –_ they know this boy is special.

* * *

It's about fifteen minutes after he subs on when he gets another opening.

He's been trying to make use of the gaps he'd spotted from the bench, trying to remember the movements he'd easily memorized as he watched, but it's not quite the same when he's actually on the pitch and has to keep the ball too.

He's doing what he promised, though. He's doing what the team needs, following their cues as he adjusts to the game. So far, he's just bridging the gap between Amar and Price, and lending his speed to their plays. He'd seen two openings, had tried two plays of his own – decent, smart if he's going to pat himself on the back – but ultimately ineffective. He doesn't get frustrated. He needs a few minutes to acclimate, to merge with the team and synchronize his play to the players around him, but time is limited, and the stakes are high, and he needs to be fast.

Now he's comfortable. Now he knows what to do. Fifteen minutes in, he's making a run up the pitch, fast and direct. He weaves through Arsenal players – their defense is falling apart around him. They had prepared for Coleman-Price-Miller. They had adjusted to Amar's shifting position. But they don't know what to do with him. He's faster than all four of them, and what he lacks in the ease of play that comes from the years of experience Coleman has, he makes up for with a stunning new concept: unguarded willingness to cooperate with his teammates, because he remembers what Aguado said – just follow their cues, you don't need to score.

Coming up on two players that he can't get through as he nears the middle of Arsenal's half, James considers his options in a split second. He can go around them and lose speed, or – he's already passed to Jones instead, running behind the cluster of players as they disperse, some of them going for the ball and one of them trying to stay in his way. But James is faster, and he's made it to the other side of the cluster just in time for Jones to pass back to him. There are too many players on his right, where he'd passed to Jones – and as he'd anticipated, not many on his left. James picks up speed, getting just close enough before Arsenal's defenders have time to catch up – he makes a perfect cross to Amar, who is waiting right where he should be, just to the right of the penalty box.

Amar takes the shot. The stadium erupts.

He's not sure what he's yelling exactly but an elated sound rips out of James' throat as he runs towards Amar, who runs to the corner as he celebrates his goal. Amar turns around and holds a hand up for James to slap his into as he reaches him. He grabs James' face and hugs him as their other teammates make it to them, and then it's just a mess of limbs and yelling he can't make out and he has never felt excitement like this, never felt happiness like this, never felt adrenaline coursing through his veins quite like this.

They've done it, they've tied the match, and they've got fifteen minutes – it's a _match_ again, they have a chance to win again, and _he helped make it happen_. James can't quite believe it, an assist like that in a match like this is beyond what he could have expected, but _he's done it_.

x.x.x.x.x

The game is different after that. James is different.

He thinks he may have performed some sort of rite of passage he hadn't known about, because the way the other players on the pitch play with him now feels different. The way the crowd reacts when he touches the ball is different. After his assist, he's earned some trust. Maybe even some respect. He feels new energy around him, as if it's a living thing.

Fifteen minutes pass like it's nothing. James has never played a match this intense, he's exhausted and feels the pressure like a physical thing on his shoulders, but he keeps pushing. Four minutes of added time is all they have to win this – both sides fight for that final goal, Arsenal matching their every move, a constant push and pull between them. He hates to admit how evenly matched they are right now, wishing he could say Arsenal is weak enough for them to beat, no problem. But he knows too painfully well that it really is anybody's game now.

 _It's Chelsea's game,_ he tells himself determinedly.

 _It's_ my _game._

His first Champion's League game, his most important game to date, and – he feels it in his gut – the game that's going to change his life. Every great player, his every football icon, every legend – they've all had one, and this is his. He's been fast, he's been accurate, he's been patient and clever and smart, he's been _perfect._ He's made some excellent plays, he's already made a spectacular assist. He's proven to his teammates and to Arsenal and everyone watching what he's capable of. All things he knew he could do, if he trusted in his training and his skill and his gut, trusted that he could do it. And he knows something else: He can do more. He can win this. _This is my game._

He has never played a match like this, never been so nervous and felt so much pressure and still been this good. Nobody judges him harsher than he judges himself, and even he knows he's been _yes, that good._ He remembers Amar's words – _I felt like I was watching the next Messi_. He remembers Aguado's in that interview – _I haven't seen a player like him in a long time. He's special._ And well, why can't he be? Every one of the greats started like him – young and playing in a match that is bigger than them and proving to the world that they aren't like all the rest.

 _This is my game._

And it's going to be the best damn game of his life if he dies to make it happen. A game Chelsea will never forget, Arsenal will never forget, and fuck it – _Europe_ will never forget.

In the end, James does not know whether it's luck or skill or concentrated power of will.

He knows that he has the ball at his feet and half the pitch between him and the goal. He knows he has two minutes. He knows he wants this more than he has ever wanted anything. He knows that he knows how to play football and he is damn good at it. He knows Arsenal has no idea what's coming when he eyes up his path and runs.

He hears his heart thundering in his ears. Hears the hum of the crowd, chants of CHELSEA reaching him as if from a great distance. He hears the shouts of the players on the pitch and the managers just off it. Attempting a solo goal now is risky and bold, but he has two minutes. Arsenal doesn't know what to do with his speed and tricky footwork and clever plays and they won't know what to do with him now as he thunders down the pitch, weaving through players. He's a little bit farther from the goal than he'd like but if he keeps moving, he'll lose his momentum trying to dodge defenders. They won't have time to build up like this again, time is almost up, and this is it, this is their last chance and he has to take it, there's nothing else for it.

Number 17, James Potter, strikes the ball. The crack of his foot against the ball is the only sound he hears. He looks up, feeling as if time has slowed around him. The ball soars over players' heads as they swivel to follow its path. It curves just enough as it nears the goal post. It soars past the Arsenal goalkeeper's outstretched arms. It finds its home in the back of the net.

James has never heard a sound like the one that erupts from the Chelsea fans in the stands at that moment. For a split second, he stands there in shock – but as the realization hits him – _he scored a goal, the winning goal –_ a surge of adrenaline shoots through him and he runs towards the edge of the pitch in blind excitement, not sure where he's going, hoping if someone is in his way they'll move because he'll definitely plow them down, he can't stop moving, what the hell has just happened and is that him yelling like a madman?

He's at the edge of the stands, drowning in the crowd's screams. They're grabbing at him, the ecstatic fans all wanting to touch him, the man who scored the winner, and he's vaguely aware of TV cameras and stadium security around him and the he turns around because _he has to keep moving and holy shit what the fuck what just happened is this his life_ and his teammates are running towards him and then he's on the ground and buried in a pile of arms and legs and blue, everyone as stunned and overflowing with joy as he is because _holy shit they've done it. They've as good as won, they're going to the semi finals._

There's only a minute of time to waste when they finally return to the pitch to wait for the final whistle, but every person in the stadium knows they've won, and when the final whistle blows, the celebration only picks up where it left off. James forces himself to calm down, aware that people are watching him more than ever now, aware of TV cameras on him and his mum in the crowd – he definitely can't embarrass her.

And then, a sudden and startling thought: Lily is here. For a brief second, he wonders if she's mad that he lied or if she's impressed or maybe she doesn't care either way because she's so fucking cool – but then he gets swept up in handshakes and people congratulating him. _Stay calm, stay professional, don't do anything you would normally do, idiot_

It is the best moment of James' life. The one that changes it forever.

* * *

The Rabbit Hole is relatively close to the stadium, and Lily doesn't have much time to kill before her shift, so she opts to skip the post-match underground trip home and sticks around the area when her friends leave. Marlene has plans with her boyfriend and Mary has work, so they both leave to get ready, leaving Lily to entertain herself alone – and she's relieved. She can't handle anymore talk of James Potter than she has endured already.

It had taken ages to get out of the stadium. When the players had finally left the pitch and the fans had calmed down enough to move, they had started to make their way slowly – _excruciatingly slowly_ – out of the stadium. It had been complete chaos, and they were surrounded by fans still cheering and chanting, as the would be for the foreseeable future, but that hadn't stopped Marlene.

"You have to introduce me to him," she'd said for what must have been the hundredth time since James had stepped onto the pitch.

Lily had sighed with practiced patience. "As you've said several times now. I got it, Mars."

"If you start dating him, we could probably meet the whole team."

"Oh my God."

"I'm gonna come to the Rabbit Hole on Thursday."

"You have class Thursday mornings."

"Yes, and?"

"Who's to say he even wants to date her? As far as he knows, she's a bitter football hater who rants at strangers," Mary had interrupted, unhelpfully, as is her way.

"Oh my _God."_ Lily had wanted to sink into the ground. And that's when her phone had buzzed with a text from Genevieve Wallace that had sent her stomach fluttering and somersaulting:

 _Hello Lily, I am still in Prague but James Potter is claiming that he knows you and wants your number. Did you in fact meet him? Are you okay with me giving it to him, or shall I kick his sorry arse instead? – Genie xx_

Lily had hesitated for a moment. She didn't know how she felt about all of this just yet. She'd thought she met a cute boy at work, and they'd hit it off, and they were friends now, and she was definitely dealing with a fast-developing crush on him. He had awkwardly skirted around any talk of what he did, which was strange, but it was alright because they'd only just met. And then he'd turned out to be a professional football player, after proclaiming to dislike them, and she had no idea what that was all about, and her friend was pestering her to meet him and that was weird and it made her a little uneasy.

But there was something endearing about him contacting her manager in the midst of the aftermath of an incredible match, when he was sure to have had more pressing things to deal with than getting in touch with her. It answered her question of whether he'd meant see you or _see you_ , at any rate. And at the very least, she wanted to be able to apologize and clarify that she didn't hate football or football players. So she messaged Genevieve back:

 _Yes, I met him. You can give it to him._

It hadn't been a long wait. A few minutes later, after she'd convinced Marlene that she wouldn't be meeting him now and said goodbye to her friends, she was in the midst of googling places to eat nearby when her phone had buzzed again. And then again, several times in rapid succession.

 _ **hi its james**_

 _ **(the handsome lad who is not a nerd)**_

 _ **(from the rabbit hole)**_

Already, Lily was smiling. As if she could forget him.

 _ **i asked genie for your # i hope that's ok?**_

 _ **i told her to ask u first so im assuming it is but if she didnt ask im so sorry im not trying to be a creep u can tell me to fuck off and i will**_

 _ **its just that i said id see you after the match and like a proper idiot i never asked for ur # or told u where and when**_

 _ **and u probably already left but in case ur waiting i wanted to tell u that i am a bit caught up with press rn but if ur up for it can i meet you at the rabbit hole or somewhere else later**_

 _ **just wanna apologize if today caught u off guard or anything**_

 _ **i am not a pathological liar or a jerk im just dumb**_

 _ **wow i just texted u like 5 times sorry im going to stop now**_

Lily couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. God, he was cute. And he was definitely Coffee Shop James. She could hardly reconcile the nervous speed texter with the intense, completely self-assured guy who had just scored the winning goal in a huge match and worked the crowd like he owned it. He had casually mentioned doing press like that was normal, but he was definitely the James she had met, and in the moment, that felt oddly reassuring.

She had texted back quickly, not wanting to leave him worrying while he was busy. It wasn't as if she needed to worry about coming off as eager, this guy had just contacted her manager for her number while people were undoubtedly fussing over him and wanting his attention, and then texted her… _how_ many times?

 _Actually, you texted me 10 times. You really are bad at counting._

He'd taken a few minutes to text back.

 _ **see? told u im not a liar.**_

 _Genie did ask. That was thoughtful of you. I'm going to work in a bit, there until 11 if you want to stop by?_

 _ **even after i texted u 10 times? i'll be there**_

 _See you then. Congrats on the match!_

 _ **thanks!**_

And then she'd pocketed her phone and pushed her way through the crowd, registering only that everyone in the chaotic thicket of blue clad fans was discussing the same thing: _Potter._

And now here she is, still thinking about him an hour later, sat in a café with a half-eaten sandwich and a cappuccino in front of her. She's been reading the same line of her book again and again because she can't focus on the words. Finally, she gives up and closes the kindle app. She tries to stop herself, has tried to convince herself that it's better to talk to him first, but she can't help it. She gives into the ugly temptation she's been fighting since the moment the match ended, and before she has time to convince herself it's stupid, Lily has typed _James Potter_ into the google search bar.

The first few results are articles about the match – shit, these people work fast. She scrolls past those, and past his Wikipedia page, choosing what looks like his profile on the Chelsea F.C. website. It seems like the least offensive option, because it's related only to his job and that's not a secret anymore.

The page starts with his stats (which Lily doesn't completely understand but she's sure they're impressive), and his birthday and birthplace (March 27, 1998 in London, England, and knowing this makes her feel like she's spying on him, so she scrolls past quickly). His profile describes him as a versatile forward who has been at the club since he was fourteen and lists a whole slew of achievements – goals he's scored and trophies and awards he's won with Chelsea's academy and under-23 teams and England's youth and under-21 teams, and there's a whole list of records he's already broken. But she doesn't read past that. She can't – she's starting to feel the vague sense of unease solidify and settle in.

She doesn't get it until she's scrolling through Chelsea's Instagram page a moment later. There's a short video of him on their story, talking to a reporter as he holds a man of the match award. There's a picture of him posing with it posted too, with hundreds of comments underneath it.

" _Legend in the making. What a match!"_

" _Move over Coleman, Potter's arrived."_

" _World class. Can't wait to see more of him!"_

His own Instagram page has almost a hundred thousand followers, but she doesn't linger on there. There're pictures of him in his Chelsea kit, but most of them are just pictures of him with his friends, and it's all starting to feel a little too invasive, so she closes the app. Her morbid curiosity carries her into the festering depths of Football Twitter next, and everyone is calling him Chelsea's Lightning Bolt, and that's about as much as she can take, because she's suddenly realized that she's spent a good half hour of her time stalking a guy online and that realization shakes her out of her stupor.

Lily has never done this before. Never obsessed over a boy like this before. She feels oddly lied to, even though she _knows_ she has no reason to. James barely knows her, he didn't have to divulge anything to her. Even if, from the moment she met him, she's been amazed at how well they get on, how easy he is to talk to, how much she _likes_ talking to him. How she'd felt like she knew him already when they'd only talked twice. But now she's discovered a brand new part of him – the biggest part of him, probably. And she's not sure she can get on with that part quite as well.

She doesn't hate football or football players. That had just been a misunderstanding, one she'll clear up quickly when she sees him later. That's not it. What she hates is the unease in her gut at her own behaviour. Worrying about what he thinks of her, if he thinks she's judgmental… if he thinks she's good enough, now that he's probably famous. And she knows he's not like that, and _she_ is not like that, but she thinks it anyways, and that bothers her.

It's not so much the realization that she had been one of forty-thousand people in the stadium, watching in awe as _he_ turned a match around, enraptured by this guy who is not even nineteen and already living out something spectacular. Or that he's apparently the best youth player in Europe, destined to be a star, one of the lucky handful of people in the world who get to live a special life. She didn't know any of this before, but James did, and he'd still been sweet and funny and nerdy, still nervously speed texted her, still thought about her in the aftermath of what had to be a special moment for him. He's only out of reach if she lets her mind wander down that troubling path.

And that's the core of it: her mind has wandered down that troubling path. She hardly knows James Potter, and he's already taking over her thoughts, and it's unnerving. She can't let herself fall into this trap, can't let herself invent insecurities and invite in a distraction this massive just because he has an adorable half smile and she loves his mess of hair and she's never met anyone like him before.

Lily has a plan. Her plan is to become a biomedical engineer, to work towards medical solutions that will prevent anyone else from losing their mother as she had lost hers, suddenly and for a reason that just wasn't good enough for the pain it caused. She's going to work at the Rabbit Hole to afford her life in the city that will make that dream possible, she's going to impress her professors so she can start researching as soon as possible, and she's going to use every ounce of her focus and energy to do it.

A vague sense of disappointment replaces the unease, but it comes with a clarity that quiets the noise in Lily's mind as she gets up to go to work. It comes with relief, because at least now she knows.

James Potter is not a part of her plan. If he's got a good enough explanation for his odd behaviour, she's happy to stay his friend if he'd like. But Lily knows with complete clarity now: her friend is all that he's allowed to be.

* * *

The rest of the day is a blur.

James is man of the match, and he can't believe it. He doesn't know how he keeps it together enough to do post-match interviews, and he takes pictures for social media, and there's a post-match debrief with Aguado and the team but if he's being honest, he remembers very little of what is said, by him or by anyone else. He'll watch the game back on Monday in detail with his trainers anyways, they couldn't have expected him to care then. The only thing going through his mind the entire time is AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH and that's about it and he thinks that's understandable.

When he finally, finally gets home from the stadium that afternoon, he carefully places his award on a shelf in his and Sirius' shared living room, and his mates and his mum are all there, and they're all so happy and so proud and his heart feels _so_ full.

It had felt like a surreal dream when he'd walked into the team celebration later and his teammates had chanted his name, cheered for him like he was a hero and – well, he sort of was, wasn't he? He'd assisted on the equalizer and scored the winning goal and now they were going to the semifinals and – _holy shit, he'd really done that, hadn't he?_ The entire day feels like the most insane, out of body experience, like he is watching someone else's life instead of living out his own. He feels this odd sensation, like he's floating over reality.

He'd felt it from the moment that match ended – things would never be the same again. He'd made a mark that would be impossible for the football world to ignore. And some part of him hadn't felt ready for it. Still doesn't feel ready for it.

His agent, Kingsley, had seen him at the stadium afterwards, but has left three voicemails and texted him like twenty times since then. But James can't look at those right now. He's tired and he's thrilled, and he can't talk about options and contracts now. He _had_ taken a quick glance at his Instagram though, when a PR person had asked him to post on his story after the match – he'd seen the number of notifications he had, panicked, and immediately turned off his phone, promising to do it later.

He's not ready yet, for whatever is about to happen. He'll deal with all of it in the morning.

It's only when he walks into The Rabbit Hole that night, at almost eleven, that he feels some semblance of reality start to settle back in. This is real life. This is normal, he comes here every single week, sometimes several times. Stepping into this most familiar of places is like stepping out of a dream and back into the real world, and James feels his heartbeat finally slow to a somewhat normal pace.

That is, until he sees Lily mixing a drink, and even the _concept_ of calm becomes as complex as the physics in the book he's sure she's hiding behind the bar, just as she had on Thursday. He's never been good at physics.

Her brilliant green eyes are stunning even from across the length of the room and her dark red hair spills across her bare shoulders in pretty waves. The place is relatively busy since it's a Saturday night, and it's a little warm inside. Lily has a slight flush in her cheeks and she is wearing a tank top that is, if he's being perfectly honest, completely unfair to the rest of humanity. She already has his heart beating a frantic rhythm all over again. If he keeps getting this excited every time he sees her, he's going to have to find a new place to get cappuccinos, lest he suffer an untimely heart attack and miss out on a glorious football career altogether.

For a startling moment, he wants to turn around and leave, because she's so breathtaking and he doesn't know how to talk to her right now and if she doesn't want to be friends anymore it's going to ruin an otherwise perfect night and maybe it's best to wait until tomorrow – but she looks up and catches his eye and when she smiles that smile – _breathtaking –_ his feet carry him to her off their own accord. He's knows the other employees working and waves at them, but he's focused on Lily. Gideon, a friend he's known since before he started working here, raises an eyebrow at him, but James ignores him.

"Well well," Lily says as he approaches the bar. "If it isn't Chelsea's Lightning Bolt."

James laughs, a nervous sound, not at all smooth like her voice had been. "Chelsea's what?"

Lily smiles sheepishly. "I guess you haven't seen the articles about yourself yet. Or twitter. The internet is calling you Chelsea's Lightning Bolt." She pauses for a brief moment as James raises his eyebrows at her. "Full disclosure, I googled you after the match. I was curious."

James stares at her, a little startled. A little unsettled. After a moment, he says, "Uh, that's a lot of information. Articles? Twitter? Lightening bolt? You _googled_ me?"

"What, like you've never googled anyone?"

"Well I have, but it doesn't seem like the kind of thing you'd do."

"It's the kind of thing _everyone_ does. I feel like when you meet someone and then they turn out to be a famous football player, googling is justified. Necessary, even." This conversation is already making him feel a bit… strange.

"I'm not famous," he says, not sure why that's the piece he felt the need to respond to, but it's weird to hear.

Lily snorts. "You are now, lightning bolt." _Yeah, it's weird. She definitely feels weird about this._ "And really, I should have googled you sooner. Could have saved myself some confusion."

There it is. James opens his mouth to apologize, but a customer calls her over to order a drink, and she holds a finger up to him and walks away to serve them. It's convenient, because he needs the time. James spends the minutes she's gone formulating what he's going to say, though to little avail. There are various iterations of _I'm so sorry I'm an idiot, please still be my friend_ still circling through his useless brain when she returns.

"Are you gonna order a drink?" she asks.

James glances at the time on his phone and shakes his head. "I don't really drink, and your shift's almost over, right? Do you wanna go somewhere else?"

Lily nods, but looks at him skeptically. "You're some big fancy athlete and you don't drink?"

James laughs. "Um, yeah, that's exactly why. I know people think all athletes do is drink and party or whatever, but it's midseason. We get drug and alcohol tested constantly. And alcohol messes with your body too much for people whose entire job relies on our bodies performing perfectly." He sounds defensive, even to his own ears, and stops himself from rattling off a list. _Decreased muscle recovery, interrupted sleep pattern, changes in appetite, dehydration and depleted energy, and shut the hell up James._

"That makes sense," Lily says. "Sorry, I didn't mean to imply that I think all you do is drink and party. Obviously, that's not what you do."

"Oh no, it's fine, I just wanted to explain." He almost adds _because you hate football players_ but stops himself, not wanting to sound accusatory, because that's not how he means it and this is already so weird.

"Yeah, but I mean, it really is obvious because you were really good today. _Really_ good. Did I already congratulate you? Congratulations!" She's speaking a little fast. It's starting to feel awkward.

"Yeah, you did earlier. Thanks."

There's some silence, brittle and awkward, and he doesn't like it. His heart is sinking a little – it hadn't been weird even when he'd just met her. Had he ruined everything before anything had even really started? That would be quite on brand for him.

"So um, my shift is about over," she says at last. "I'm just gonna clock out and grab my stuff?"

"Sure. I'll wait outside?"

"Sure."

James nods and goes outside, waiting for her by the door. He feels the sudden urge to open up his Twitter app to see if people are really talking about him – is that really what he took from that conversation? Shit, he's vain – but he fights it. He can't have that on his mind now. One thing at a time. Fix the awkwardness with Lily. Then worry about the internet. A plan, yes. He likes plans.

Lily comes out a few minutes later and puts her hands in her coat pockets. "It's cold."

"My car's parked not too far from here," he says, nodding in the general direction as he starts walking. She walks with him but doesn't say anything. "So, you googled me?" He asks, just for something to say. "What did you find?"

"Well, no signs that you're a serial killer, so that's good news."

James laughs. "Oh good, that's a relief. I wasn't sure."

"There is a James Potter in Birmingham who compulsively steals the wheels off toy cars, though. He's fifty-seven. You aren't a kleptomaniac, are you?"

"Not right now, but I'll report back when I'm fifty-seven."

Lily nods. "Also, you know… that you've played for Chelsea since you were fourteen."

"Right. There is that."

"How come you didn't mention it?" Lily asks, her tone casual in a way that sounds like she's _trying_ to sound casual.

"Um… you sort of, you know, gave me the impression that you're not a particularly huge fan of football players."

"To be fair, so did _you._ And you _are_ one. So that's kind of confusing."

James can feel his face burning, and he's _so_ glad it's probably red with cold anyways. "Yeah. I guess I did sort of give off that impression. But to be fair, I stand by what I said. They did spend too much on Levinson, he's just not that good, and – that's not the point, sorry."

"Why did you say all that if you're a football player? I assume you didn't just find out today too?"

"Uh, no, I definitely knew before today." Lily waits for him to continue, and James wills the ground to swallow him up. This is _so_ embarrassing. Why can't he just be a normal person who says and does normal things, like not pretending to hate football players while he is, in fact, a football player?

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his breath fogging up in the air before him, and stops to face Lily. He _hates_ when things get awkward, and it hadn't been weird with Lily before. It had been startling and wonderful how _not_ awkward things had been from the moment he met her. He has to fix this, or at least clear the air, regardless of the outcome. "Okay. I really hate awkward conversations, so I'm just going to plow through. Do you want the honest truth, Lily?"

"Preferably, yeah." She turns to face him too.

"Okay." He pauses again. She waits. "Okay. The honest truth. Honestly, what happened is that you're really fucking pretty, and I lost my shit. Basically."

Lily stares at him for a moment, like she can't quite believe what he's saying – he can't blame her, he has been known to lie – and something flashes across her face, but then she bursts out laughing. The flush in her cheeks deepens a little and sweeps down her neck, no longer just the cold. " _What?"_

James groans. "Don't make me say it again."

"No, come on. Did you say you lost your shit because I'm pretty?" She grins widely at him.

"Now you're just fishing for compliments. But I said really fucking pretty, actually."

Lily shakes her head, maybe in exasperation and maybe in disbelief, an amused grin on her face all the same. "Thank you. And you're ridiculous."

"Yeah, as if I don't know. Sirius made fun of me for _days_. And then when I saw you again, it's like, how do you even broach that topic again? What was I supposed to say? Hey Lily, remember when I agreed with you about hating football players last week? Surprise, I lied. And also, I am one."

"That's a fair point. Although I did ask you what you decided to do with your life, so that might have been an opportune moment to throw it in."

"It would have been embarrassing either way, and I figured you'd find out at the match anyways and then never talk to me again and… you know. I wanted you to like me, I guess?" Shit, this is _so_ embarrassing. Why would he say that? If Sirius could see him now, he'd never let it go. He'd write it into James' eulogy (which he'll need to prepare quite soon, as James has plans to throw himself off a building after this).

"I _do_ like you, you idiot. We're friends now, remember?"

She likes him! She _likes_ him. Of course he notices the boundary right away, casual as it is. I like you, as a _friend_. But that's fine, because she likes him, and he doesn't have time to date anyways, and he likes her as a friend too. He and Lily could be great friends. It's for the best, anyways. "You did last time I saw you. Has… your opinion of me changed now?" He starts walking again, because he can't stay still anymore, and she walks beside him.

"No. For a minute there I thought you were this cool, famous athlete, but then you texted me ten times, and I was like, yeah, that's anti-dwarves James."

James laughs at that, his shoulders relaxing a little. "I'm serious. You _did_ say you hate football players. And I, as we've already established, am one."

"I _don't_ hate football players, or football. It sort of came out wrong. I only meant that I'm… not a huge fan of any system where there's that kind of disproportionate level of wealth and privilege for some people, and then other people live in poverty, you know?"

James nods. "Okay. You're not wrong."

"I wasn't talking about football players specifically. Just the way things work. But that's not really any football player's fault, they're just doing their job."

"Our job that is just kicking a ball around, hm?"

Lily shifts uncomfortably. James doesn't want to put her on the spot. But… he likes her, and he doesn't want her to have a low opinion of what he does, because _he_ is proud of it. "No! That was just a throwaway comment, to drive the point home. I know how hard professional athletes work and train constantly to play the way they do. I know how much discipline and dedication it takes." She looks up at him as they walk. "And James, _you_ were incredible today. I'm not just saying that. I don't know how much time and work you have to put in to get to that level, but believe me, I know you're not just playing with a ball."

"Thanks, Lily. Really." James cracks a smile, finally genuine. "So, you don't hate me or my job. And I'm not a headcase, just a dunce. All sorted?"

Lily laughs. "All sorted. Unless you're hiding some other huge revelation?"

"You googled me, wouldn't you know?"

"I only read your profile on Chelsea's website. I didn't like stalk your Wikipedia page or your Facebook or anything."

James unlocks his car as they approach, vaguely wondering if he should open her door or if that's weird. He wouldn't open the door for his other friends, and that's what Lily is. His friend, like she'd said. His really fucking pretty friend, but his friend nonetheless. It's probably best if he doesn't, because… well, now he's gone and opened the door anyways. Oh well, it's only polite, and she's never been in his car before, and that's why it's different. Not because she's really fucking pretty. Yes. That's exactly it.

Lily smiles at him. "Thank you." She's looking around when he gets in the driver's side, and he's glad he at least had the sense to clean his car last week. Look at him go, making sound decisions. Not that it matters, because friends are allowed in messy cars. "This is a nice car."

"Thanks. I didn't make it or anything, but you know, thanks." _Ugh, shut up._ Lily raises an amused eyebrow at him – she's so talented, she can raise _one_ eyebrow – and he diverts to their previous topic. "And I don't have Facebook."

"Okay. I'm going to be honest, I did look at your Instagram."

"Did you follow me?"

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"I didn't _want_ you to know I looked you up!"

"Well I do now, so you have follow me, or I'll be terribly offended. Where are we going, by the way?" He's driving, but not sure where to. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, but it's actually kind of late, and I have to get up early to catch up on homework. Do you mind just taking me home?"

He's a little disappointed, but it's for the best. Sirius will want to go to Amar's party and the earlier they go, the earlier they can leave. James needs _some_ sleep. "Sure, no problem."

When she's put her address in his GPS and they're on their way, she asks, "So, no other revelations? You're not a crime lord?"

"I have to be honest Lily, I am not super comfortable with how many crimes you've accused me of today. Or with the fact that you got in a car with me anyways."

"Shut up. Now I _know_ you're avoiding telling me something. So, what? Are you a crown prince? An evil politician's son? Or, I dunno, heir to a multibillion-dollar empire or something?"

"I mean my dad has a business but it's not a big deal." It's just a small lie. It doesn't matter anyways. She doesn't need to know option three is dead on, and it's far too uncomfortable to bring up. Too personal for right now. "Anyways, you know so many things about me, and I don't even know your last name. That's hardly fair."

"It's Evans."

"Lily Evans. That's a nice name."

"Thanks. I mean I didn't choose it or anything, but you know, thanks."

"Shut up, you're so rude. I'm complimenting you and you're making fun of me."

Lily chuckles. "It's hard to resist, you're so easy to make fun of. By the way, my roommate Marlene is a _huge_ Chelsea fan. She's the one who got us tickets to the match today. And uh, at some point, she is definitely going to show up at The Rabbit Hole to try to meet you. Just… fair warning, and I'm sorry in advance."

James snorts. "Please. My best friend is _Sirius_. My entire life is apologizing on his behalf, you got to experience that first hand already. I think I can handle meeting your friend who happens to be a fan of my team."

"She's been harassing me all day because I told you I hate footballers."

"Rightfully so, that was very rude of you."

"Once she sees how annoying you are, she's going to hate footballers too."

"I'm Chelsea's Lightning Bolt, she'll never hate me."

" _Wow."_

"Your friend Marlene and I are going to be the best of friends, I can already tell."

Lily laughs, and then they lapse into a comfortable quiet until he drives up her street and parks outside of her flat complex.

She smiles at him as she unbuckles her seatbelt. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem." He thinks about it for only a split second before he continues. "Marlene doesn't have to come to The Rabbit Hole, by the way. Sirius and I invite some friends over for a game night kinda thing every now and then, we're doing it next week. You and your friends should come," he says, casual as anything. Game night with her friends and his friends. Easy, fun, no pressure – he could do that. If they're going to be friends, they might as well just be proper friends. "Overly competitive drunks fighting over Monopoly is always a good time."

Lily grins. "That sounds fun. Are you sure Sirius won't mind?"

"I doubt it, I invite lots of people he hates, which is only partially me being petty and mostly just a consequence of the fact that he hates a lot of people. But he actually likes you."

"Alright, text me the details." She smiles as she steps out of the car. "See you Thursday?"

"If you don't, I'm probably dead."

"I'll come to your funeral."

"Thanks so much. Follow me on Instagram. Also Twitter, I'm dead funny."

"I think I hate you. Goodnight, James."

James grins. "Goodnight, Lily."

Then she turns around and walks inside. James lets out a breath, wishing he could bottle up this day and keep it forever.

* * *

 **A/N:** AHHHHHH. Please leave a review, and come talk to me on tumblr at moonawrites! (Really. Please come talk to me)


	4. Are you feeling okay?

**A/N:** I'm very sorry for taking 6 months to update this. It was hard to find time to write while taking 6 final year engg classes, but that's done now and so is chapter 4! I hope all the Jily interaction makes up for my long absence. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Are you feeling okay?**

"You're no longer playing for the youth side at all," Kingsley confirms, fingers moving furiously across his phone screen as he speaks. James doesn't mind – he is almost definitely speaking to someone on his behalf anyways.

"Nope. And Aguado only wants me dipping back to the U-23s for a handful of key matches," James says. His agent puts his phone down on the table between them, and focuses his full attention on him. James can hardly control his grin. "Said I gain nothing from playing with players that aren't at my level, and that he doesn't want to overplay me and risk an injury. I'm pretty much exclusively first team now."

It's Tuesday now, and James' head is still spinning from Saturday. It's odd to think how much everything has changed already, and all he did was play one match. Granted, it was one extremely important match. Not just a league game or a domestic cup that only English fans would care about – it was a Champion's League semi-final. All of Europe will have watched it.

Last night, he'd been watching a Sky Sports segment while having his dinner, when he'd seen his own face on his TV. By then, James had already read several articles about the match and his performance. He had heard what commentators had to say about him while watching back match highlights (notably, that he deserved to be on the lineup for _every_ match and was a football star in the making). He'd even had Aguado tell him in front of the whole squad that he had been wrong, James _was_ the best player on the pitch that day.

But he hadn't expected to be talked about beyond that, so he felt it justified when his excitement lead to his dinner being spilled all over himself and the living room rug. He may be a professional now, but he is not quite so used to seeing himself on his favourite segment that he could stop himself from jumping up in excitement in the privacy of his own home. Kyle Ray, who happened to be James' favourite English football commentator, raved that his goal was the best of the season so far. James had whooped loudly at that.

He had carried that energy with him into his training session that morning, and he'd needed it to counter the increasing negativity he was getting from Coleman. Not that he cares – James is too happy to be bothered, and Coleman is a later problem.

Now, he's meeting with his agent to discuss… the messier side of his job. They're sat at a café that is not quite as good as the Rabbit Hole, but it's close to Kingsley's office.

"And you're starting lineup tomorrow. FA cup, against City. Big match," Kingsley says thoughtfully. "I'd say you've earned some trust."

"Mhm. People online practically petitioned to have me on the lineup for this match," James tells him, taking a sip of his cappuccino. With Kingsley, it's not bragging. He needs to tell his agent these things – or so Kingsley has told him.

"You were one of the top searches in England this weekend, did I tell you?"

James is amazed that the muscles in his face haven't given out yet, what with all the smiling he's been doing lately. "No, but I have gained more than a hundred thousand followers in a few days," he says, shaking his head in awe. "I honestly can't believe it."

"People want to see more of you. Chelsea wants you doing more promotional content now. Behind the scenes for their social media, event appearances and the like."

"Okay. That's a good thing, right? If the fans want more of me, I mean."

"It is. Chelsea are capitalizing on the surge of interest in you and turning you into a celebrity, the offers will only get bigger from here."

James sighs. The messy part. "I told you, I only want Chelsea. Just get me a good deal here."

"Manchester United requested a chance to speak with you," Kingsley tells him, watching him over his cup of tea. James' eyes widen slightly – he can't help it, his interest is peaked. His agent knows it, had counted on it. "Bayern Munich doubled down on theirs," he continues, smiling now. "The more you play, and especially if you continue to perform the way you have recently, the bigger and better the offers from other clubs are going to get. Factor in the exposure you'll be getting off the pitch now that Chelsea wants to capitalize on the fans' love for you. In the next few months, you're going to become the hottest young commodity in football."

Even coming from his agent, whose job involves selling James as a football player, James has to fight the urge to shift in his seat. The praise is as hard to hear in person as it is pleasant, it's a strange sensation. "Great, so get me a _really fucking good_ deal at Chelsea."

Kingsley sighs. "James, you need to at least entertain the interest from other clubs, take them seriously even if your end goal is Chelsea. If they know how badly you want to stay, they're not going to work very hard to keep you."

"You know that I don't really care about the money," James says – mostly for the reaction, which doesn't disappoint: Kingsley coughs around his mouthful of tea and promptly puts his cup back on the table. James' lips twitch as he continues, "I want to play football at my favourite club, and I want starting lineup every single week. That's what matters to me."

Kingsley clutches his chest dramatically, prompting an amused grin from James. "Don't _ever_ say that out loud again. To me, or anyone else. What they give you in exchange for you playing for them, your worth as an athlete, is going to define your career. And for an eighteen-year-old with hardly a season's worth of first team experience, you're worth a hell of a lot right now. Don't do _anything_ to sabotage that."

James waves his hand noncommittally. He's heard this lecture a million times. "I know, I know. So what are they offering now?"

Kingsley pushes his phone across the table to him. James skims over the email, his eyebrows shooting up as he looks back at his agent. "Damn. That's pretty good!" Kingsley only shakes his head as he pulls his phone back, and James frowns. "What? It's a massive upgrade from what I've got now."

"Yes, and they want a lot more from you now than they did when you signed that contract. They want you to play on the first team, they want to sell your shirt and put your face on posters and put you in front of every camera they can find, they want to sell your story as the academy star that rose up to become a first team star."

"So? I _am_ an academy star that rose up to become a first team star."

"There you go, show me some arrogance! You're ready to do everything for less than what you can demand now, because you're a Chelsea fan – enough of that. You're not a Chelsea fan. You're a professional football player. Make them sweat a little, they'll offer you what you deserve."

James sighs, slumping against the back of his chair. He always wishes he could have the sport without this madness tied in, but Kingsley is right. It is the progression of his career on the line here. "Fine," he says, finally giving in. "What do I need to do?"

"You need to start showing interest in the other clubs that want you."

James wrinkles his nose, taking another sip of his cappuccino. "It just feels dirty. Like I'm cheating on Chelsea or something."

"Chelsea is your club, not your girlfriend. This is about your career. You're not doing anything wrong by speaking to other clubs with your current club's permission."

"What did Chelsea have to say about those requests anyways?"

"Denied. But if _you_ request an opportunity to speak with other clubs, knowing how much interest there is, that alone is going to make them worry. It's not a transfer request, it's not a big deal. Just make it known that you're at least interested in what others have to offer. They're going to step up to keep you, because if you don't reach an agreement now, there's nothing they can do to stop you leaving in the summer anyways."

"Okay. Request it. Let them know I want at least the option to talk to everyone who wants to talk to me."

Kingsley smiles. "That's more like it."

"The end goal is still Chelsea," James reminds him, running a hand through his hair. He tugs uncomfortably on the ends. "I'm not super thrilled about this whole thing."

"You will be when your club begs you to stay."

"And what if they don't?" James asks, sitting up straight again. He leans forward, elbows on the table like his mum tells him not to do. "What if someone makes an offer they don't want to refuse, and they let me go? I might be good, but I'm still new."

"Not a chance," Kingsley assures him. "That's one thing they've made clear – they want you as badly as you want them. We won't push harder than we have to. Trust me on this."

James nods. Kingsley is good at his job, and though it makes him nervous, James knows he can trust his expertise. "Alright, fine. What else do we need to talk about?"

"I'm thinking it's time to grow your team beyond me and your mother now," Kingsley says. "A PR representative, at the very least."

"Mum can handle that."

"She's looking at CVs as we speak, I had a list ready to go before you even touched the ball on Saturday."

James smiles at that. "Good to know you have that much faith in me."

"Of course I do. Now, how do you feel about a Nike endorsement?"

* * *

"How deep into her profile are you?"

James briefly glances up from his phone to look at Sirius, who is sitting far too close to him and looking over his shoulder instead of at the television. Sirius always turns the TV on too loud and then doesn't watch it, because he's just annoying like that. He also always sniffs out any opportunity to make fun of James, and he must be sensing one now. It's Friday evening, and James has been scrolling through Lily's Instagram profile for at least a half hour now.

"Shut up. I looked at like three pictures."

The truth is, James has looked at about thirty-six. The current one is from Halloween… two years ago. He's been staring at this one for a while, and honestly, it's not his fault. Lily is wearing a green cloak over a long, flowy dress (it brings out her eyes), her hair intricately done with braids woven into the dark auburn waves, a delicate crown atop her head. There's glitter on her eyes and her ears have been done to look pointed – obviously, she's dressed up as the most stunning, beautiful, ethereal elf in all the land. And she'd called him a nerd! He is, but she dressed up as a Kingdom of Ashes character for Halloween!

Sirius snorts. "Liar."

James sighs. One of these days, he is going to make good on his threats and actually move out. "Maybe _you_ lie about everything for fun, but _I_ am an honest, respectable man. _Why_ would I lie?"

Sirius looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. Contemplating why he's so annoying and rude, perhaps. And then, so quickly James doesn't register what he's doing in time to pull his phone away – all his hard-earned football reflexes have abandoned him – Sirius reaches over and double taps on the picture.

James jumps up with an incomprehensible yell, dropping the phone as if it's burned him. He glares at Sirius, who is laughing like he hasn't just ruined James' life and invited his own murder. "See? _Liar._ "

"She's going to think I'm crazy!"

"You _are_ crazy, mate."

"Lily doesn't have to know that!"

"She does. Does pretending to hate football players while _being_ a football player ring any bells?"

"Fair point. Well made." James sinks back down onto the couch. "She stalked me first anyways."

"If that makes you feel better."

"And we're friends. It's fine."

"I can see that's going really well for you so far."

"Will you just shut up and watch your show?"

"I don't appreciate being abused by you just because you're horny, you know."

"It's not _just_ because I'm horny. It's also because you are the actual worst person in the entire world."

"Oh, ouch, I'm stung," Sirius deadpans. "Better the worst than the _saddest."_

"Yeah? Well I get to play footy for a career and never have to do maths ever again in my life."

"That's just uncalled for. Your ego is becoming unbearable."

"You've been unbearable for three years now."

"I'm curious to know what the threshold was? What happened three years ago?"

James is saved from answering by the doorbell ringing. "Thank God, someone I like is here."

He can hear Sirius muttering about him getting ruder every day as he leaves the living room. Remus is at the door, holding a couple of bags full of snacks for game night. Remus always has snacks – he, unlike Sirius, is an all-around pleasant person to be around.

Remus greets him with a smile as he comes in, and James takes the bags from him. "Hey. Geraldine stopped me in the lobby to tell me to tell you to stop telling her children there are Yetis in their flat. They are very traumatized and she's losing sleep."

"Good. Geraldine needs to stop taking up half my parking spot every day," James says with probably unnecessary venom, as he is speaking to Remus, not Geraldine herself. "I've even offered to teach her how to park! She took that pretty badly."

Remus walks past James and into the living room. "Well, I did my part."

"And, it is not my fault Geraldine raised stupid children!" James continues, following him into the living room. He drops the bags onto the coffee table. "Yetis in a London flat? She deserves the headache."

Remus sighs and flops onto one of the many beanbags in their living room, evidently regretting opening up this dam.

"Also, her new boyfriend loiters in the lobby and plays trap music without earphones in. She's lucky I haven't fed her children to an actual Yeti."

"There are no Yetis in London, James," Sirius says. "Get a grip. I'm telling you, we need to get a mean dog."

"If _you_ haven't scared them off, what makes you think a dog will?" Remus asks. James nods in agreement. "Anyways, it's hardly her kids' fault their mother is Geraldine."

"Don't even get me _started_ on her kids," Sirius says at the same time that James scoffs indignantly.

"Are you two hearing yourselves right now? You sound like bitter old retirees who lost their pension to a bad investment and cope by complaining about the unruly youths in their neighbourhood."

"We were told there were no kids in this building!" Sirius defends. "And not only are there kids, there is also _Geraldine_."

James nods in agreement. "We are completely justified in our anger."

"And in our bad behaviour," Sirius adds, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. "I put up a flyer by the mailboxes with a new number for tenant complaints. It's Geraldine's."

James can high-five to that, offering up an appreciative " _Nice!"_ as he slaps his palm into Sirius'.

Remus gives up on pretending to judge them, and he laughs too. After all, Remus is a much nicer person than he and Sirius… but it's Geraldine, and everyone has their limits.

x.x.x.x.x

An hour later, the flat is full of James and Sirius' friends.

Game night is one of Sirius' better ideas. Every couple of weeks, they invite some of their friends over to play games, drink beer (minus James), eat, catch up, and generally just have a good time. Ten to fifteen of them – it's the perfect number of people: enough so that they can play one huge game or have several smaller games going at any given time, but not so many that it stops feeling like they're hanging out and it just becomes a party. It's genius, really. They have snacks and drinks and later in the evening, they vote on food to order in. It's a nice way to keep in touch with all of their friends at a time when everyone is doing different things and going different places. Sirius would die before admitting it, but he is quite the sentimental sap.

It's always the two of them and Remus and Peter, of course, and they invite some friends from secondary school that they like enough to keep in touch with. Then, there's the new additions. New people from uni or work or… any number of random and questionable places, in Sirius' case. The new additions often get rotated on and off… and sometimes phased out. James' ex Cecilia, for example, is obviously no longer invited. But Dorcas, Remus' friend from Cambridge, has graduated from the every-other-time rotation to a permanent invite. It's a cutthroat system, but it is necessary for the sanctity of game night. Though occasionally Sirius tries to create it, game night is a drama free event.

James would be lying if he said he isn't the most excited about this week's new additions: Lily and her flatmates. He's never met Mary or Marlene, but he's sure if they're Lily's friends, they must be cool. They have yet to arrive, which is good, because he has yet to collect himself.

"I'm a bit offended you don't put in this much effort to see me," Remus says from his spot laying on James' bed. James momentarily stops fussing with his hair to glare at him.

"You don't know how much effort I put in, you always see me _after_ it's done."

"You're doing your hair after everybody else, including me, is already here."

"I'm just… touching up."

There's a knock at the door. Remus grins and rapidly jumps up off the bed and to his feet. "I'm gonna go tell Lily you're touching up!"

James' mouth drops a little. " _What?_ How –"

"Sirius. Why ask?" And with that, Remus leaves the room. Concluding that his hair has obviously not become manageable over night, James gives up and follows him out.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Sirius has already gotten to the door and let Lily and the two other girls in.

"James is making himself extra pretty for you," Sirius tells Lily by way of greeting, but James is too busy staring at Lily to even be mad.

They're just friends, of course, but his heart still skips a beat. James is pretty sure it's okay to feel your heart skip a beat when you see one of your very pretty friends after a long time of not seeing them. Especially when said friend shrugs out of her coat and is wearing a very nice, form fitting, dark green sweater underneath – she _has_ to be doing that on purpose, there's no way she doesn't know how this colour makes her eyes look (so pretty it's hard to even look at her, but he'll suffer for it). And it's hardly his fault if she smiles specifically at him, is it? It's a platonic heart skip. _And_ the sweater has a shoulder cut-out, damn her (in a platonic, _just friends_ way, of course).

And okay sure, it hasn't _really_ been a long time since he saw Lily… in fact, he did see her just yesterday. But he only had enough time to order his cappuccino and go (he'd thought she would improve with time, but it seems Lily's cappuccinos have reached their peak. Maybe next time he'll get tea). James had wanted to stay and talk, but he had to go to a media training session. It would have been annoying if it wasn't for the fact that it was because his amazing performance on Saturday had brought with it a ton of attention he is not yet used to.

So, it is perfectly normal for him to be this excited to see… his friend. But maybe he should look at the other two girls as well. And possibly walk over to them, and say some words, too.

One of Lily's friends, tall and blonde and blue-eyed, spots him first, and her eyes widen a little – she must be Marlene, the Chelsea fan. James smiles and holds out his hand to her. "Hey. I'm James."

Marlene stares at him for a moment, then sighs defeatedly and shakes his hand. "Sorry, I was trying to think of something to say besides _I know_ but I can't, so… _I know._ "

"You could say _Hi James, I'm Marlene,"_ their other friend says. She's the shortest of the three, despite her tall boots, and has a head of dark, curly hair.

James laughs. " _I know._ And you must be Mary. It's nice to meet you guys."

"Oh, so you did tell him about us!" Mary says to Lily. Then she turns to Remus and Sirius and eyes them both up, with no amount of subtlety. "You told us how cute James is, but you never mentioned his friends."

James raises an eyebrow at Lily, unable to fight his smirk as her face flushes.

Sirius makes an offended sound and frowns at Lily. "You didn't tell your friends how attractive I am? Rude." Lily still looks a little flustered, but she manages an eyeroll.

Mary takes off her coat and shoves it into James' hands, nodding in her friends' direction. "I don't know which of them is more excited to see you, so I'm just going to try to balance this all out." Lily groans. Sirius looks like he's about to wet himself with excitement.

"So um, this is Sirius and Remus," James says, pointing to each of his friends in turn.

From the living room, he hears someone swearing loudly. "And that's Peter. You'll meet him after he's done with this round of Uno," Remus adds.

James hangs Mary's coat with the others in the hall closet, then leads them out of the entryway and into the living room.

"HEY, EVERYBODY!" he yells. It takes fifteen seconds for everyone else and an additional ten for Peter to calm down and look their way. "This is Lily, Marlene, and Mary," he says, pointing to each of them in turn. Then he waves his hand in the general direction of his friends. "This is everybody. I'm sure you'll learn their names at some point."

When everyone has said hello and returned to their games, Sirius points down the hall. "Bathroom is the first door on the left. James' bedroom is the door across from it. You can snoop in there but not in mine." He points at the island separating the kitchen from the living room, where snacks and drinks have been set up. "Help yourself to food and drinks. Wifi password is by the TV. Join a game or start a new one. Peter is nicer than the impression he will make on you tonight if you play literally anything with him, James will play FIFA with you if you ask nicely but he'll hate you after, and yes, Remus _is_ single. I think that covers everything?"

"Wow, okay. Thanks." Lily only looks slightly taken aback – she must be getting used to Sirius. She looks around the space.

Their living room has floor to ceiling windows and leads into an open concept kitchen, separated by a marble top island. There's a large flat screen hung on the main wall, across from a blue sectional sofa. In front of it sits a big round coffee table, where a group of their friends are in the midst of a game. The flat is very stylishly made and tastefully furnished, though they had little to do with that – as Euphemia had dramatically declared when she'd appointed herself as their interior designer, "I cannot have my children living in squalor!"

But James is quite proud of the bits they did do – the art they'd picked out to fill the space (two of the pieces are from Genie), and especially the numerous beanbags, which he can admit they went overboard with, but he loves them anyways. One wall has an intricate, colourful mural started – it's a project he and Sirius have been working on for months now. Admittedly, it's mostly Sirius' work, he's a far more talented artist than James. But he lets James contribute here and there. There's a ladder propped up against it still.

"This is a really nice place," Lily says.

"Thanks, it was a gift," Sirius throws over his shoulder, already heading back to the coffee table, where he must have been playing Pandemic with a few of the others. Mary snorts in amusement and heads towards the drinks setup.

"I'm sorry about him," James says.

"I'm sorry about her," Lily replies.

"By _gift_ , he means his dead uncle left it for him in his will," Remus explains helpfully.

"RIP Uncle Al," James adds, solemnly placing a hand on his chest.

"You have very interesting friends," Marlene says to Lily.

James grins. "Thank you! Anyone up for a game of Exploding Kittens? We need to start a game right now or I'm going to bring up Lily telling everyone I'm cute – oh shit. Too late."

"Was that you who liked a two-year-old picture on Instagram an hour ago?"

"Touché. I'll get the game."

x.x.x.x.x

"I have three hairy potatoes!" Lily exclaims, throwing the cards down on the pile with enthusiastic vigour. "Peter," she says with maybe a little too much satisfaction on her face, like it's high stakes poker and she's about to win a hundred thousand pounds, "I want your diffuse card."

Peter looks like he really has just lost a hundred thousand pounds. He looks like he wants to die as he hands over the card – and he will, soon. Lily has made sure of it.

"Thank you!" she says brightly, tucking the card neatly into her hand. "And… oh. Look at that. A skip card." She throws that one down too. "Your turn again," she says sweetly.

The others playing – James, Sirius, Mary and Marlene, all of them having already lost – lean in with interest. James and Sirius are practically shaking with anticipation. Remus pauses his game of Uno and comes over to watch, joining them on the floor by the window. Everyone in the room seems to be watching – this, clearly, is a much bigger deal to them than it is to Lily, but damn it if she's not enjoying playing into the drama anyways.

Lily's 'see the future card' has given them all a look at what is clearly coming next. Peter glares venomously at her, lethargically reaching over to pick a card up off the deck. Despite knowing it was going to happen, Peter still stares at the card in silent disbelief, which slowly gives way to utter heartbreak as the seconds tick by. Everyone waits with bated breath for him to speak, to react. But when he continues to just sit there, Sirius sighs impatiently and reaches across the circle they've made on the floor to grab the card out of his hand.

Sirius whoops triumphantly, jumping to his feet and thrusting the card into the air for everyone to see. "EXPLODING KITTEN!" he yells, aggressively throwing the card back onto the pile. "PETER HAS BEEN DEFEATED!" As the others in the room start cheering – there is _applause_ – Peter sinks to the floor wordlessly. Laying there, unmoving and silent, is a stark contrast to the yelling he has been doing all night. He takes this _very_ seriously.

Lily had thought James was being (characteristically) dramatic when he claimed that Peter has uncannily good luck with card games and never ( _ever ever)_ loses. But the cheering and applause and toasts – people are _toasting_ to her and to his downfall – tell her it must be true.

"You are the perfect woman, Lily Evans," Sirius says to her. "I know you guys voted for pizza, but Lily wants Chinese, and she defeated the evil, so we're getting Chinese."

"Okay," Lily says through a laugh. "This is a good night!"

"And it's for the best," James says. "I can't eat pizza, and you're about to find out Lee's Garden has the best Chinese food in London."

"Chinese Food is the best Chinese food in London," Lily states with confidence. Not an argument, but a simple statement of fact.

"I've lived here for nineteen years, I would know. You're brand new."

"Have you been to Chinese Food?"

"No. Have you been to Lee's Garden?"

"No. But I'm on a winning streak."

"Well, it's about to end."

"We'll see. Is Peter going to be okay?"

James glances at his friend – still laying unmoving on the floor – and shrugs. They seem to have drifted away from Peter's limp form and everyone else without noticing. "Yeah. This doesn't happen often. Last time was Halloween, he overcompensated for his loss by drinking too much, then projectile vomited off our balcony. So this is actually pretty good, he'll be fine when the food gets here."

"Are you _all_ this dramatic?"

"I mean… yeah. Remus will say he isn't, but he's definitely the worst one. It's why we've been friends for so long, no one else will have us."

Lily laughs. "Okay, I've really been trying not to comment on it, but… _you can't eat pizza?"_

James sighs. "There it is."

"It's just sad!"

"It's really not, I don't care."

"Your job really sucks."

"I'm going to Rome tomorrow, so there's that."

"Can you eat pizza in Rome?"

"That is not the point!"

Lily grins. "Alright, alright. Don't get all worked up now. What're you going to Rome for?"

"We're playing A.S. Roma on Sunday. It's just a friendly, and then there's some media stuff."

"Is that what your media training was for?"

"No. That was because during a post match interview on Saturday, a reporter asked me how I was feeling and I said, 'Pretty fucking good, mate.' And then I said 'Shit, sorry, I forgot I'm not allowed to swear.'" He shakes his head when Lily bursts out laughing, but he's laughing too. "Hey, cut me some slack! I was excited, and I told the truth."

"Thank god you've started to do that."

"One day, you're going to have to let the whole lying about being a football player thing go."

"I don't, and I won't."

"I'm never inviting you over again."

"It doesn't matter, Sirius thinks I'm the perfect woman. He'll invite me."

"I can veto his invites, so you better watch yourself."

"You guys take this thing _very_ seriously."

"Yes, and you should be grateful for it. If half the people Sirius suggested actually came, no one would be safe. Trust me, I know from experience. One of his _friends_ tried to do black magic on me."

Lily shakes her head, half amused but half… just not even sure anymore. What is this guy? "You're lying."

"I've literally never lied in my entire life." Lily hasn't even opened her mouth to respond when he holds up a hand and quickly adds, "Don't respond to that with footballergate. Seriously, come up with something new, it's been years."

"Footballergate?" Lily wheezes, a laugh bubbling up in her chest, getting caught, and turning into a snort on its way out. Her cheeks burn, but she's red from laughing anyways.

James laughs too, either at his own joke or at the sound it elicited from her – probably both. "Giving my scandals a name makes me feel important. And I'm gonna go order the food now, before you come up with something rude to say."

"You're not famous enough for scandals with names," she calls after him as he tries to get away. "Get a hold of yourself."

James' laugh, and the brilliant grin he throws her over his shoulder, make her breath hitch.

 _Get a hold of yourself_. She ought to take her own advice.

x.x.x.x.x

"The night was dark and cold. A frigid wind chilled the inhabitants of the town in their beds, rattling windows and coaxing creaks from the rafters of the aging buildings. It carried with it the sense of something dangerous, an impending doom that grew more and more insurmountable with each night that the werewolves continued to roam."

Transfixed, Lily watches James speak from his spot sitting cross-legged on the floor, outside the circle of his friends. Her eyes are open – she's already dead this round – and she's having even more fun watching him. James is the most committed Mafia (or as they like to play it, Vampires) narrator she's ever come across, going so far as to dim the lights in the flat and play eerie music in the background to supplement the story he weaves into the game.

Peter snickers. "Oooohhhhh. Terrifying."

"Shut the fuck up, Peter!" Sirius snaps. "You're ruining the _ambiance."_

"The townspeople were exhausted," James continues, ignoring them both. "It was hard, living this life of constant fear. They went to bed each night with terror in their hearts, dread seeping into their very bones, knowing that someone wouldn't wake up the next day. Sleep was more and more elusive, thoughts of who would be the next to go driving away any hope of rest. Who had lived their final day? Everyone hoped it wouldn't be them, or someone they loved. Most hoped it would be Peter Pettigrew, the asshole who kept ruining the ambiance."

"Hey!" Peter whines. The others in the circle, including Lily, laugh. James throws a smile her way – God, he is so nice to look at.

"Though the night felt endlessly long already, it was hardly midnight when finally, they struck again. Vampires, open your eyes."

There's a knock at the door just as Remus and a couple of the others open their eyes. James hops up to his feet. "Then a brave lad named James Potter valiantly slayed all the vampires, the town was safe, they built a statue in his honour, and the food had arrived. The end."

In the end, they'd ordered Chinese _and_ pizza – to be fair to the voters ("Game Night is a democratic institution!" according to James), but also to reward Lily for defeating the evil (who had perked up immediately when Sirius suggested they play Vampires to kill time before the food arrived).

James and Sirius carry in the obscene amount of food and set it up on their kitchen counter. A short while later, Lily is sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, balancing a plate of food piled high on her lap. James spots her and walks over to sit across from her. His own plate features lots of vegetables and absolutely nothing deep-fried, even though the flat is now full of mouth-watering aromas.

"Are you having a good time?" he asks.

"This is honestly the best games night I've ever been a part of," Lily tells him earnestly, earning a wide smile from James. "Your friends are all so nice."

And they are, from the brief introductions she's had to all of them throughout the evening. Alice and Frank (who are nineteen and _engaged_ ) and Gideon (who she knows from working with him at The Rabbit Hole) and Fabian (who is Gideon's twin) and Hestia (who might be dating Sirius but she still can't tell, and neither can they) all went to secondary school with James, Sirius, Remus and Peter (who are, evidently, the best of friends). Dorcas is Remus' friend from Cambridge, where they're both studying. And Mateo, who Sirius claims he tried to veto (though Lily doubts it, they seem to get along quite well) is James' friend from Chelsea's youth team. But that's about all she knows about them, because she's mostly just talked to James.

"Even Sirius?"

"He has his own unique charm."

James laughs. "Your friends are great too. Mary is hilarious. And Marlene knows _so_ much about football."

"Has she been driving you crazy with questions all night?"

"Nah. Believe it or not, I actually like talking about the thing I've dedicated my life to. She's really cool about it. Plus, she only asked me _one_ sort of invasive question, so she's doing pretty well."

Lily groans. "What did she ask?"

"Why I had commitment issues with Chelsea until last year. Which, incidentally, I did not know was common knowledge."

Lily cringes. "What did you tell her?"

James shrugs. "Just that I was young and hadn't fully decided what I wanted to do with my life yet."

"Sounds like an evasive lie."

"Clever girl. Did you get that lab report done yesterday?" She'd been working on it between customers at The Rabbit Hole yesterday – it was due at midnight last night, and she had been so stressed about getting it done.

"Submitted at 11:59 PM."

"Shit, that's cutting it close. But you got her done!" he says, holding his hand up for a high-five. Lily smiles and slaps her palm into his.

"I'm _so_ sick of school," she sighs.

"You're in your first year!"

"Ugh, don't remind me."

A little crease appears between James' dark brows. "Don't you like what you're studying?"

"It's what I want to be studying."

"But do you like it?"

Lily shrugs. "Honestly? I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm out of my depth. I never really planned on studying bioengineering."

"Why are you studying it?" James asks, and Lily is suddenly aware of where the conversation has led them. Something about James makes him so easy to talk to, so easy to lose track of time and boundaries with. She has a hard time admitting the difficulties she's having at uni to anyone, and here she is, telling her newest friend about it. And now, seeing the earnest, genuine curiosity on his face… damn her, she wants to tell him more. She wants the weight off her chest, she wants to say it out loud to someone.

"Because of my mum," Lily admits.

"Oh." James' frown deepens. "She pushed you towards it?"

Lily puts her plate down on the floor beside her and wipes her hands on a napkin. Maybe he senses the conversation is about to get serious, because James puts his own plate down and inches a little closer to her. She's glad that she picked a spot away from the others.

She's not sure how to start, and James waits patiently.

"You don't have to tell me, Lily," he says when she doesn't say anything for a while. "I was just curious, and I understand what it's like to have a parent push you towards something. But I'm sorry if I overstepped."

"No, it's not that. It's just kind of hard to talk about."

"I'm open to listening," James says. The look on his face is so tender. "But only if you want to tell me."

Lily smiles gratefully at him. There's really no right place to start, so at long last, she just starts talking. "I honestly didn't really know what I wanted to do, I just kind of vaguely thought that it was going to be something creative," she begins. "And then my mum got diagnosed with brain cancer. Three years ago." She watches his face as she says it. James is expressive in general, and most people react very strongly to that statement. Though he looks mildly shocked at the turn the conversation has taken, James just waits for her to continue, listening intently.

"All of it happened _so_ quickly. Within a span of two months, we noticed her vague and sometimes random symptoms get suddenly worse, she _finally_ got the right tests done, we finally found out she had a grade-four tumour on her brain. But by the time all the tests came back, and she was approved for surgery, she was dead." Lily's voice cracks near the end.

It never, ever gets easier to tell this story. Never gets easier to remember it, the pain and fury as fresh now as it had been on that nightmare of a day three years ago. November 17th. It was cold, the wind sharp and the clouds dark, like an omen. Or maybe that's just how her grief clouded memory has twisted it.

She doesn't notice her hands are shaking until James reaches over and takes each one in one of his.

"I'm so sorry," he says, the words barely a breath. "That's… that's so devastating. I'm so sorry you went through that."

Lily stares at their clasped hands, now resting on his knees. "Me too," she says quietly. "And that's why I picked biomedical engineering. Its just… unreal to me that it's 2017 and that kind of thing still happens. If she'd been diagnosed earlier, she might have lived long enough that we wouldn't have been so blindsided by it, you know?"

"Is that what you're planning to do? Engineer better diagnostics technology?"

Lily looks up at him, mildly surprised, and nods. "Yes, exactly. Imperial does a lot of really amazing biomedical sensing, diagnostics and imaging research. I want to be a part of it. I mean obviously so many other factors play into a late cancer diagnosis, but I can't fix every crack in the system. I've always had a knack for maths and science though, so…" she trails off and shrugs. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"And now you don't like it?"

Lily absentmindedly turns her hands over in James' and plays with his fingers. He's so focused on her face, her words, he doesn't seem to notice. If he does, he says nothing.

"I'm passionate about it. I want to be a part of a solution to this _so_ badly. It's just harder than I expected. Sometimes I can't keep up, and I think I picked the wrong thing. And then I feel guilty for being so weak about it when my mum is gone, and it's like, this is the least I can do for her." Lily smiles, and she feels how bitter it is. "Something I might've talked to my mum about, if she were here. But I guess that's why I have to do it."

"You're the most incredible person I've ever met, Lily Evans," James says, hazel eyes fixed on hers. Lily is startled – at his words, at the intensity in his gaze. He's sitting so close, she can pick out the individual shades of brown and green in his eyes, the ring of gold around his pupils.

"Because my mother is dead?" she says. She hears the edge in her voice. Talking about this always brings out her most bitter and angry side, and she can't help it. She suddenly wishes she could take it all back. Now he's going to feel sorry for her and walk on eggshells around her. Now he won't want to tell her anything, because he'll think his own problems can't compare to her tragedy. He won't know how to act around a girl with a dead mother, and their too new friendship will fizzle out when one or both of them gets tired of the effort it takes to make it normal. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Because you endured an unimaginable tragedy and your reaction was to decide you're going to fix the issue that caused it. You're so much stronger and so much more resilient than I could be. _And_ , you're brilliant." He squeezes her hands gently. "Look, everything worthwhile is hard. It takes more time and energy than anybody wants to expend, half the time it seems like you signed up for more than you could ever possibly take on. But you just push through, right? One day at a time. You're not out of your depth, you wouldn't have gotten into Imperial if you weren't good enough for this. The main thing is that you have the drive for it, and you do."

 _Huh. Maybe not._

Lily can't help smiling at that. She squeezes his hands back. "You're sweet," she says, gently tugging her hands from his. "And such an athlete."

James raises an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Only an athlete could pull an inspirational speech like that out of their arse on a moment's notice."

James lets out a laugh. "I'm being a supportive friend!"

"I know. And I appreciate it so much. You have no idea how nice it is to hear that sort of thing out loud sometimes."

"I think I do," he says. "I mean it's hardly the same thing, but I feel out of my depth too most of the time. I just chalk it up to being new and young and everyone around me being more experienced, but hearing some reassurance is nice sometimes."

"It is. And James?"

"Hm?"

"Please don't do that thing where I told you a sad thing that happened to me and now you feel like you can't tell me anything because you think it's not as serious, okay?"

"Okay," he says simply.

Lily lets out a heavy sigh. "I feel like someone just lifted a rock off my chest. I haven't really talked about this with anybody. It feels nice to say it out loud."

"I'm glad you feel better," James says. "You can talk to me any time. Really."

"Thank you. So." Lily smiles at him, properly this time. She is ready to move on to a cheerier topic. "Looks like you had another great game on Wednesday."

"Did you hear from Marlene?" he asks.

The truth is, she'd watched the match with Marlene, cheering James on from their living room – he'd been spectacular once again. And then she'd watched his post-match interviews, indulged in every bit of commentary on his recent games that she could find, and fallen down a rabbit hole of every YouTube video even remotely related to him. Since Saturday, it seems he's sort of blown up. It's kind of crazy to her that she'd seen him on TV last night and now she's sitting next to him on the floor in his flat.

Out loud, she says, "Actually, I watched it with her."

"Well yeah, we won! It was a good day. A good week, really."

"How're you handling everything? Seems like things have gotten pretty crazy for you."

"Yeah. I'm really not handling it, because I honestly can't believe most of it. I feel like I'm living someone else's life."

"You'd better get used to it. It is, in fact, your life."

"It's all just _so_ weird."

"I bet. I've always wondered what it's like for a celebrity when they first become famous." James is starting to turn a little red, and Lily laughs. "Oh, come on. You've got to at least stop getting flustered when someone points out your imminent fame. Isn't that part of the territory when you make it as a professional athlete?"

"I guess, but it's still just mad weird."

Lily nods and drops it. She thinks it's cute that it gets him flustered, but she doesn't want to make him talk about it if it makes him uncomfortable. "Alright, I told you why I picked my career. Why did you pick yours?"

"I just love football," James says, not even thinking about it for a second. "My dad was a huge fan, I've watched football with him since I was little. Watching it made me want to play, so I started playing for fun and turned out to be pretty good. It's just… the thing I do best, and that makes me the happiest."

"That's really sweet. Your dad must be so proud of you."

James' hand immediately shoots into his hair, tugging on the ends uncomfortably. "Not really."

"What do you mean? You're doing amazing."

"He's a huge fan of watching the game and he loved it for as long as I was only interested in watching it too. But I guess he had other plans for me, and I think I've kind of let him down by choosing football instead."

Lily gives him an incredulous look. "You think you've _let him down?_ James, you're eighteen and a professional athlete!"

"I _know_ I've let him down, because he's said as much."

" _Why?"_ Lily is stunned.

"He wanted me to join him at his company. He's not happy that I decided I don't want to."

" _Oh_. Is that what you were talking about, knowing what it's like to have a parent push you towards something?" James nods, and Lily suddenly understands. "That's what the commitment issues were all about."

James runs a hand through his hair again.

"Yeah. I wasn't sure whether I was really going to give up on taking up the family business or not. I mean I definitely knew I wanted to play football, I just didn't know if I could disappoint my dad like that, you know? Because we were really close. I wanted to… I dunno. Make him happy and proud, I guess? And I didn't know if I'd ever actually make it as a football player anyways. That was around the time I should've been applying to uni, and I realized that I couldn't. I just finally decided there was nothing else I wanted to do besides football, and I wanted to give it a proper shot. Dad took my decision pretty badly."

"What happened?"

"He told me that if I wanted to pursue this stupid, childish dream of mine, I could do it without his support. He wasn't gonna pay for me to throw my life away or watch me do it. So…" he trails off and shrugs. "I moved out and Sirius and I moved here."

Lily stares at him in shock. "He kicked you out?"

"Not explicitly, my mum would never let him do that. But it was just such a bad situation, I couldn't keep living with him if I wanted to play football. I haven't really talked to him since."

"Fuck. I'm sorry, James."

James shrugs again. "It's… whatever. I know he just wants the best for me, and he didn't want me to go through the disappointment of not making it. But things are looking pretty good right now, I'm sure he'll come around."

"Yeah, I'm sure he will," Lily reassures him. Though by the hard set of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders, she can tell it hasn't happened yet. Lily can't fathom how he's had the week he's had, and his father apparently hasn't even congratulated him.

James puts a smile on his face and claps his hands together. "Okay, enough of that. Don't look at me like that, it's really fine. My mum is basically my manager, she's amazing enough for both of them."

"It's okay if it's not fine though, you know? It really sucks that you're doing something you love, and you're doing _so_ well, and your dad isn't supportive of it. You can be upset about it and it's okay."

"I know. It does suck, and it does kind of hurt. But there's not anything I can do about it. I made my decision and now I just have to stick with it, and hopefully he'll come around. If not, then…" he shrugs. "I still stick with the choice I made and focus on the good parts. Which is basically everything else." He picks up his plate. "Our food is probably cold, I don't want the temperature affecting your judgement of Lee's Garden."

Lily rolls her eyes. "It's good, you freak. Not Chinese Food good, but it's good." She holds up a hand to stop his argument before he even begins. "And you can't argue, I'm the only one who's had both."

x.x.x.x.x

When they get back to the others, there's a shift between them. Lily suddenly feels like there's no boundaries left between them. Like that's it, they're really friends now, no going back. She'd felt unnervingly comfortable with James Potter from the moment she met him, had been terrified that he would turn out to be a jerk who would make her pay for her inexplicable soft spot for him – but she knows quite certainly now that that won't happen. Something about him is just too intrinsically good and kind for it. Lily's a good judge of character, she's okay trusting her gut on this.

They're playing a game that James – and she can't quite believe he's real when he says this to the room – learned at improv class with his mum a few years ago.

"Basically, you have a scenario, and you have to hold a continuous conversation with just questions. First person to repeat a question or make a statement instead is out. You get ten seconds to come up with something," James explains.

"Okay," Sirius says. He glances at Lily, a mischievous little smirk on his face. "The scenario: you're on a roller coaster and your car gets stuck upside down in a loop. James and Lily, go."

"Are we going to die!?" James yells immediately.

"Will you calm down?" Lily replies.

"How am I supposed to calm down when we're going to die?"

"Why can't you think about something positive?"

"Why can't you understand that we're about to die?"

"Why can't _you_ do something useful?"

"Like what, you want me to try climbing down?"

"Do you have anything to say that's not stupid?"

James groans. "Oh fuck, we're really going to die aren't we?"

Lily sighs in mock frustration, but she's talking around her own laughter. "Do you want me to push you off and end your misery?"

"Do you _want_ me to die?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Why aren't you answering it?"

"How can you think I want you to die?"

"Aren't you getting tired of me?"

"How could I ever get tired of _you?"_

"Is that not what you're implying?"

"Don't you know that I will _never_ get tired of you?"

"Do you really mean that?"

Lily swallows, her eyes on James. She says, "Of course I do."

There's a beat of silence in the room.

"Statement," Sirius says, glancing between James and Lily, a smirk starting at the corners of his mouth. "James wins. Alice, you're up."

But James' eyes are still on Lily.

* * *

They're proper friends after that.

More than proper friends. He's heard about her mum and her struggles at uni and she's heard about his dad. James might even go so far as to say that they're _close_ friends.

It all happens kind of suddenly, kind of seamlessly, so that he hardly notices it. One moment, it's February and he's just met a girl named Lily Evans. The next, it's mid-April and he somehow can't picture his life without her.

They have a new Thursday routine. James goes to The Rabbit Hole in the morning as always, but now, Lily has a cappuccino ready for him. One week, Sirius brings up how much James loved it when Margaret wrote his name in the foam. Lily laughs at him about it all afternoon, but the following Thursday (and all the ones after that), his name is written in the foam of his cappuccino and she winks playfully when she passes it to him.

He sits at the bar and talks to her in between customers for as long as he can stay. She tells him about her classes and her friends. He tells her about what an unbearable dick Michael Coleman is (and God, has Michael Coleman become an unbearable dick). Sometimes, she's too busy to talk, and studies between customers instead. On those days, James sits quietly and reads or talks to Sirius if he's there. But he likes her company anyways.

They always seem to be texting – even now, as James walks to his car to make the drive home from Cobham, his phone is open to a conversation with Lily.

 _ **about to leave, when are you off?**_

 _An hour-ish?_

 _ **need a ride?**_

 _Yes please!_

 _ **see ya in an hour**_

Sirius thinks he's ridiculous for it, but James has learned Lily's work schedule, and when it coincides with his, he drives her home. Lily's not a huge fan of the tube, and it's just another excuse to spend time together around their busy schedules.

An hour later, he's parked on a narrow street, a couple blocks down from The Rabbit Hole. He'd love to go inside, but it's too late for caffeine and he can't drink midweek and he can't get a donut so there's really nothing in there for him besides temptation. It's a short wait before Lily gets in the passenger seat.

"I made you a pre-dinner smoothie," she says, holding the light blue-purple drink up. James eyes it suspiciously as he takes it – he has been victim to many of Lily's failed smoothie experiments. He still has nightmares about her sweet potato, beets, turmeric and coconut milk concoction. She'd claimed she thought it might work out to be one of those weird combinations that are actually delicious, but he suspects she just wanted to see him suffer.

"What is this?" he asks, trying to smell it through the plastic cup.

"Just try it."

James eyes her wearily. "What's in it?"

"Oh come on. Don't you trust me?"

James snorts. "Obviously not."

"I swear it's good, I had some!" She looks so earnest, too. So innocent. It makes him all the more suspicious.

"Fine, but if you're lying, you have to walk home."

Lily rolls her eyes as James makes a big show of taking a deep breath before he finally takes a sip. He gets ready to gag dramatically, but… it's surprisingly delicious.

"Wait, this is actually really good," he says, still suspicious. He takes another sip before he starts driving. "Did you really make this?"

"I'm so offended right now."

"Don't be, you've known you suck at this for a while."

"Harsh. True, though."

"What's in this, for real?"

"Blueberries, honey, vanilla, almond milk, lemon and a lavender infusion."

"Damn, that's sophisticated. You can't make a cappuccino, but you can figure out how to make this?"

"I don't know how my many obscure talents work."

It's so easy being Lily's friend. They never run out of things to talk about. Not when he drives her home, not on their long Thursday mornings, not over their ongoing text conversations, not even during movies – and they both _hate_ _it_ when people talk through movies.

When they arrive at Lily's flat, she asks, "What're you doing for dinner?"

"Haven't decided yet, you?"

"I'm craving Chinese Food, do you wanna stay?"

"Can't ever say no to Chinese Food."

James had initially been bummed that Lily was right after all – Chinese Food, despite its uninspired name, is in fact better than his beloved Lee's. But Lee's will always have a special place in his heart, it's still close to his flat, and he can hardly complain about good food. Especially not when it comes with good company.

When they get up to her flat, it's empty. Lily informs him that Marlene is at her boyfriend's and Mary is working late.

Suddenly, ridiculously, James feels a bit nervous about being here and considers making an excuse to leave – but that's insane. He's alone with Lily all the time. Not in her flat though. But what does it matter if it's his car or her flat? He doesn't know but it _does_. He has to remind himself that this isn't a date. But that opens up a whole other can of worms – _of course_ it's not a date. Why would he even think that? God, can he shut up already? Why does he literally have the most annoying brain of all time? It's lucky Lily can't read minds. Oh god _WHAT IF LILY CAN –_

"James?"

"Hmm?" He focuses his attention on Lily, standing in front of him with a takeout menu and her phone in hand. When had she gone into the kitchen to take it out of her menu drawer and come back? He anxiously drags a hand through his hair. This – being an idiot around Lily, _his friend_ Lily – hasn't happened in a while.

She waves the menu in his face. "I asked you what you wanted."

"Oh, right. Sorry." He takes the menu from her and opens it, though the words don't register when he tries to read them. Now he's just embarrassed.

"Are you feeling okay?" Lily asks, a slight frown forming on her gorgeous face. _Stop it you can't just call your friend gorgeous in your head all the time._

"Yeah. I think I'm just tired. Steamed dumplings and the beef and veg I got last time?" It's not a lie. His post-training exhaustion doesn't always hit right away, but it always hits.

Lily nods and takes the menu back. While she goes back into the kitchen to put it away, James turns the TV on, letting the familiarity of it calm him down. He puts on an episode of Friends from her _Continue Watching_ list on Netflix, and she joins him on the couch after she's ordered the food.

"Is Coleman still being a dick?" Lily asks, a hint of concern on her face.

"He'll always be a dick, it's engrained in his character," James says. He wants to be lighthearted, he feels bad that his near meltdown made her worry. But this, Coleman's hostility – it genuinely does stress him out every day that he has to see him. "I swear he's trying to injure me on purpose."

"Doesn't everyone see what he does? How is he allowed to get away with it?" Lily asks, his frustration echoed in her voice.

"He's a lot more subtle than he was that first time. He's just super aggressive, it's like I can't focus on actually training because half my energy is focused on avoiding him and avoiding a fight. I've never had to work so hard to control myself."

"Can't you do something about it? Like, I dunno, isn't there someone you can talk to?"

James shrugs. "Coleman is very important to Chelsea. As long as he keeps scoring goals, he can pretty much get away with anything. Kingsley told me to just focus on my training and ignore him. He thinks it might affect my place at the club if I start anything. And I don't want to be the kid that whines when things are a little tough, you know? I'm really lucky to get to play at all."

"You're not lucky, you're talented. And this is gonna blow over, eventually he'll have to get tired of this too."

"I hope. How was your day?"

"Mild. Got my calculus homework done early."

"Ugh. Still prefer Coleman to calculus."

"How would you know? You've never taken a calc class."

"Do _you_ enjoy it?"

"That's not important. The point is, _you_ can't know if you'd like it."

"You should know by now that I hate things I'm not good at, and maths of any kind is something that I am decidedly not good at."

"That's not true. You like a challenge. If Sirius said you could never do calculus, you'd learn it just to spite him."

"True. Please never suggest that to him, I don't want to learn."

"Why, because you're scared you couldn't do it?"

"No! I bet I could. I just don't want – okay, I get it. Stop laughing."

Lily grins. "You're insane, honestly."

"I'm going to master calculus just to spite _you_."

And just like that, it's like the almost meltdown never happened. It's just Lily. His thoughtful friend Lily who put lavender in his smoothie because she'd told him lavender tea might help him relax after a stressful training day and he'd said he didn't like the taste. His close friend Lily, who he never runs out of things to talk about with, who can recite any episode of Friends by heart, who can take complex integrals in her sleep (probably), and who makes him feel instantly at ease just by being around.

When he gets home later, Sirius is on the couch working on his laptop, legs spread out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He has his concentration face on, but he glances up from the screen when James comes in.

"Hey. You're late."

"I got dinner."

Sirius puts his laptop down. "With Lily?"

James almost winces. "Yes."

"Interesting." There's an irritating glint of amusement in Sirius' sharp eyes. "How's that going?"

"What?"

"Your inappropriate crush on your new best friend?"

James considers just telling him to shut up, but instead, he sighs and flops onto the other end of the couch. "Great. Should be ready to throw myself off a cliff any day now."

It's so easy being Lily's friend, James can almost forget he'd wanted more.

 _Almost._

* * *

 **A/N:** Please let me know what you think in a review. I'm moonawrites on tumblr, please (really, pls) come chat with me there!

P.S. Thank you to everyone who interacts with me on tumblr, and sends me messages about this story - every time I got one, it motivated me to get back to writing. And thank you to anyone who reads and favourites/follows/reviews etc. I truly appreciate it!


	5. Are you done bumming me out?

**A/N:** An update nearly exactly 2 months after the previous one! TWO, not six! That's really not bad at all, considering the size of it (which is why it wasn't up yesterday at exactly two months like I wanted, this bad boy took THAT long to edit). It's 22,000+ words. I know. If the editing gets sloppy towards the end, forgive me, I was tired af. I considered splitting it up into two updates over two weeks because SO much goes down, but it's done so it's here. Just pace yourselves. And remember my generosity when you get to the end.

If you follow me on tumblr, you might already know that this chapter is when things start to get reaaaaal messy. (If you don't follow me on tumblr, first of all, rude. I'm moonawrites)

It's a real ride from here on out, so... buckle up. ;)

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Are you done bumming me out?**

"They're definitely after the other twin." James tosses a piece of popcorn up into the air. It hits his chin and drops onto the bed instead of smoothly into his mouth, and like a proper slob, he doesn't even bother trying to reach for the stray piece. Instead, he picks out more popcorn from the bowl balanced on his stomach. It's a good thing that Lily, currently on speaker phone, can't see him sprawled out ungracefully on the bed. "He's an arsehole."

It's another Friday evening spent away from home. The team had arrived in Swansea that morning, and after an afternoon of training and dinner out with his teammates, James has finally said goodnight to the others and come up to his room.

Being away stopped feeling like a vacation a long time ago. He might be put up in a fancy hotel, but he'll still have to wake up early for a match tomorrow. Watching a movie with Lily on the phone has become his favourite way to wind down from the day when he's playing an away game.

Lily snorts. "They're just children."

"Children who are definitely going to murder their family."

"True. Also, his name is Zach. Have you ever met someone named Zach who wasn't an arsehole?"

"Such a good point."

A knock on James' hotel room door interrupts their speculation on arsehole children and people named Zach.

"Who's that?" Lily asks.

"Hopefully my food. Pause the movie, I don't wanna miss any murders." James pauses _Sinister 2_ on his own TV and gets up to answer the door. It's been a while since dinner and he'd had a tough training day, he's already feeling like a snack again.

"Good evening, room service." The uniformed lad on the other side has a pleasant hotel employee voice.

"Hi," James smiles politely and steps aside to let him in. But the young man – he looks to be just a couple of years older than James, and his nametag reads _Brian_ – doesn't smile back or take a step into the room. His eyes only seem to widen a little as they land on James' face.

For a moment, James is worried. He's only been to Wales a few times, and never to Swansea before. Is there some Welsh etiquette he doesn't know about? Is it rude to want a room service waiter to come into his room in Swansea? Is he supposed to take the tray off the cart himself? Nod a certain way? Should he usher him in? But before James can do anything dumb and typical of himself, Brian clears his throat and pushes the cart inside and towards the small, two-person dining table in the room.

"You can just put it on the bed, thanks," James tells him.

"Of course."

Brian places the platter of vegetables, crackers, and cheese on the side of the bed that doesn't have James' phone – still on the call to Lily – and the little bowl of popcorn he'd asked for earlier. "Would you like me to open your water for you?"

"I'm good, thank you," James says. Brian only stares at him again. James shifts uncomfortably. "Um… I mean, you can if you want to?"

Brian shakes his head. "Sorry… you're James Potter, right?"

Now James just stares at him. How does this stranger know his name? Does everyone that works at hotels know the guests' names? "As far as I know."

Brian laughs like James has told a joke. Sure, a joke. James grins like he's told a joke.

"I'm going to get in so much trouble for this, but do you mind taking a picture?" Brian asks, a nervous lilt to his voice.

"Of what?" James asks, realizing how stupid he sounds as the words leave his mouth, but it's too late, he's already said them.

 _Of what?_ Of course he just wants a picture with him. Because – as James has only just remember – he's a football player. That's why he's in Swansea, after all. People actually know who he is now, weird as it is.

"Sorry, kidding," James recovers quickly, before he earns himself a reputation as an idiot. He is one, of course, but everyone in Swansea doesn't need to know it. "No problem."

Brian takes his phone out of his pocket and grins as James throws an arm around his shoulders for the picture. It still feels weird to be recognized outside of London when he's not in a football stadium. London is full of Chelsea fans, it makes sense there. But this is _Swansea._

"Thanks so much," Brian says as he pockets his phone, and elated grin on his face. "And sorry about the staring. I knew Chelsea were staying here, but I'm kind of new and they're not letting the new staff serve any of you. It got pretty busy downstairs though, so I got sent up, but I didn't know it was for you. Took me off guard, is all."

James laughs. "Nah, don't worry about it."

"That goal you scored against Arsenal… chills, mate. We were buzzing."

"So was I," James tells him, smiling genuinely. Brian, in spite of all the staring, is a nice lad. Sure knows his football, too. He's got good taste, Brian.

As if suddenly remembering he's at work, Brian abruptly straightens up and clears his throat. "I'll let you get back to your evening, my apologies."

"Don't apologize! Really, thanks for the ego boost."

The waiter chuckles, finally seeming relaxed. "Good luck tomorrow! Don't go too hard on us though, I don't wanna get relegated again."

James' lips twitch. "No promises, mate. Goodnight."

Brian nods, but as he turns to go, Lily – _damn it, she's still on speaker phone and heard him ask "_ of what?" _like an idiot_ – sighs into the phone. It's really almost a whine.

"James, baby? Where did you go?" she asks on a breath, the sultry sound like molten honey coating his skin.

The waiter swivels back around to face him, eyes wide, but James is frozen in place.

"I'm getting cold," Lily whines in that husky voice, sending a shiver down James' spine and raising goosebumps on his skin. God, he's so fucking easy. "Come help me warm u–" James lunges for his phone, mortification finally giving life to his useless limbs. He can already hear Lily laughing as he takes her off speaker phone.

"Goodnight!" Brian practically squeaks, hurriedly pushing the room service cart to the door, his movements jerky and clumsy. He knocks the cart into a table on his way out, but doesn't pause for even a second. The poor guy cannot get out of there fast enough.

James locks the door behind him, Lily's laughter still in his ear. Thank god she can't hear the frantic rhythm his heart is pounding out in his chest. _So easy._ "You are literally the _worst_ person I've ever met."

"I know," she says sweetly, all signs of the exaggerated attempt at seduction gone. "I tried to stop myself, but I didn't want to. That was cute though, you have fans in Swansea!"

"I had one fan in Swansea, and you've traumatized him."

"I've given him a _story_. Now he gets to tell his mates he walked in on _James Potter_ having phone sex."

"If it ever gets out, I'm gonna sell you out so fast." James is amazed his voice is even. He drags a hand through his hair, tugs on the ends like he can tug the feel of her voice off his skin. Honestly, it was a _joke._ "Full name, address, lack of phone sex skills, all of it."

"Trashy. Sounds like you."

"I am what I am." James settles back onto the bed, finally calm. "I'm going to chew really loudly in your ear to get back at you."

"What did you order? A hard-boiled egg and one celery stick?"

"A cheese platter actually, and please expand your comedic range beyond my diet already. It's just sad now."

"Whatever, I'm gonna play the movie and enjoy my doritos loudly in your ear."

James hits play. "You'd be really good in this movie, you'd annoy the ghost kids to a second death before they got you to watch all the murder movies."

"Aw, baby. Quit flirting."

James laughs. "I feel like their movies should have a proper intro though, you know? A full arc, really. Ease you in, introduce themselves, get you invested in their parents and charmingly annoying younger sister, _and then_ feed them to crocodiles. Much more impact, from a cinematic perspective."

"Such a good point. Do you think the Babadook had to give the first kid film making classes? This is how you work the camera, etcetera?"

James snorts. "He compels them to kill their families in completely deranged ways, you don't think he can compel them to know how to work a camera?"

Lily hums in acknowledgement. "Then who taught the Babadook how to work a camera?"

"He went to the National Film and Television School. Quite a rare film making talent, actually. This is why you can't skip the first in a series."

"Right, of course. Noted for next time. Why couldn't he just use his talents to try for an Oscar or something?"

"Dunno, but I feel like it's quite noble of him to pass his love of the arts on to a younger generation."

Lily laughs. "I'm sure their dead families appreciate it."

"We all must bleed for art, Lily. It's what makes the world go round. Some of us make art. And, you know… some of us get eaten alive by rats. It's just the way of things."

Lily is quiet for a moment. "This is a really fucked up movie. Can't believe you're making me watch it when I'm alone tonight."

"You picked it! Where are Marlene and Mary?"

"Mars is with her boyfriend and Mary's gone home for the long weekend."

"Are you good with scary movies?"

"Mostly pretty awful, actually."

"Then _why_ would you pick a horror movie when you're alone?"

"They're fun!"

"Do you want to watch something else?"

"No, I like it."

"Do you want me to stay on the phone until you fall sleep?"

He can hear the smile in her voice. "Yes please."

Watching movies with Lily on the phone while James is out of the city has become something of a tradition. Falling asleep with her voice in his ear is fast becoming one.

* * *

"You need to move back to London," Sirius says to Remus on Sunday afternoon, swiping the last chip off his plate. They're all sat at a booth in the same burger joint that they've been coming to since they were fifteen. It's not the very best in the world, but it was close to their school and the grungy look of the place seemed so cool to them then, and nostalgia was a powerful driving force. "James is never here anymore. I'm desperately lonely."

James had played two matches that week and had the day off from training. It's a perfectly aligned break, because Remus was in London for the long weekend too, so they could all hang out together for the first time in a while.

It was shaping up to be a pretty good week. On Tuesday, he'd played in the first leg of their Champion's League semi-final against Juventus. He hadn't started, and the match ended in a draw – but he'd scored Chelsea's only goal. He'd scored again in Swansea yesterday, when he actually had been part of the starting eleven. Actually, if he's being honest and not particularly modest, it's been a pretty good few _months._ Since that match against Arsenal, he's played in just about every match for Chelsea, and he's delivered. He's a given on the lineup for any match, Chelsea's top of the league, everything is good and right and wonderful.

James raises an eyebrow. "I'm literally here right now. So is Pete? You and I actually live together."

Sirius waves a hand. "Stop trying to be important. We haven't seen Remus in a month."

Remus doesn't look particularly moved by this performance. He takes the final sip of his milkshake. "Feel free to come visit me in Cambridge any time you want."

Sirius wrinkles his nose. "There are about twelve people in Cambridge and ten of them are old. Why would we come there? London has your parents and things to do."

"I'm very sorry that my education is getting in the way of us eating at the same place every weekend and then watching telly at your flat."

James scoffs in offense. "Because it's _your_ favourite place!"

"True. I do love this place. And London."

Sirius grins triumphantly. "So move back!"

"I wish. But… education."

Peter lets out a long sigh. "I wish we could all just be footballers, like James."

Remus nods in agreement. "Or socialites, like Sirius."

James snickers as Sirius shoves Remus' shoulder. "Never mind, stay in Cambridge."

Remus raises his eyebrows, blue eyes widening. "Oh, shit. Is that an order, Lord Black?"

James laughs, rather enjoying Sirius being the one getting made fun of for once. Sirius just rolls his eyes and gets out of his seat, already turning to go. "Alright, enough of that. Let's go already."

"He's so easily offended." James waits for Remus and Peter to get up too, then follows Sirius out of the shop.

"If you're gonna make fun of it, you should at least use the correct title," Sirius says to them outside. He immediately clamps his mouth shut, evidently remembering what his actual title is.

James snorts. "That's exactly the opposite of the truth, mate."

"You're only making it worse," Peter advises him.

"What _is_ your actual title?" Remus prompts, though of course he already knows.

"I don't have one, because I'm disowned, in case you'd forgotten?"

A brief moment of silence follows that heavy reminder. Such a dark time in Sirius' life, that was.

Then James says, "I mean, not legally. Your mum just threw a fit. You're still Lord Fapton."

A clever deflection, but James will not be deterred from any opportunity to call Sirius _Lord Fapton._

"You just wanted to say it," Sirius grumbles, scowling at Remus and Peter, who have burst into laughter.

"You brought it upon yourself when you said _use the correct title_." James raises his hands up, eyes widening innocently. "I was only doing as you asked, Lord Fapton."

"I genuinely wish they would _actually_ disown me, if only to rid myself of that," Sirius mutters darkly. "It's what I've been trying to do my entire life, but I think they refuse because they know this is punishment enough."

"You could try just killing your father so you can take his title," Remus suggests helpfully.

"I considered it, except it turns out I'd just get his higher title but still keep this one until I can pass it on to a son anyways." Sirius looks sullen, defeated. "I can't believe my brother just gets off with Lord Regulus and I get _this_."

"Also multiple estates?" James reminds him.

"I will never live anywhere outside of London, it doesn't matter," Sirius says glumly.

"To have the problems of a nineteen-year-old noble," Remus sighs wistfully.

James chuckles and throws an arm around Sirius' shoulder as they walk. It's just a laugh, really. Sirius hasn't spoken to his nightmare of a family in years. He's more a Potter than he is a Black, and the farthest thing from nobility James can imagine – as far as he's concerned, Sirius is _his_ brother, and the rest is all nothing more than a technicality they all ignore (until, of course, there's an opportunity to laugh at him for it).

"Can we get ice-cream?" James asks, deciding it's time to drop the banter. Sirius can take a joke better than anyone, and James knows he's not bothered. But this particular joke is a reminder of his family, and James would rather end it miles before they approach even the possibility of upsetting Sirius over it. "I've been craving some for days, and I'm allowed a treat today. I deserve it, with the week I'm having."

And just like that, the jokes are back on him. His strict diet and routine is everybody's favourite thing to laugh at. Especially when his friends are getting drunk on the rare weekend he's actually free, and he has to leave to go to bed early.

It doesn't last long, though. They're roaming through a park in the neighbourhood, arguing over where to go for ice-cream, when they come across a group of boys – six of them, probably ten or eleven years old – playing footy. A couple of them are wearing Chelsea shirts, which isn't surprising – this is deep Chelsea territory.

One of the boys locks eyes with James by accident, freezes mid-kick, and excitedly nudges the friend closest to him. The others follow their gaze and suddenly, an excited chatter erupts in the group as they all spot him. Their commotion draws the attention of the others lounging about the park.

Remus grins. "Looks like you have some fans."

As they walk closer, James can hear the kids all furiously whispering to each other. At least, they're attempting to whisper – he can hear them from several feet away.

"You ask him!"

"No, you ask him, you're wearing the shirt!"

James' lips twitch in amusement. His friends hang back as he closes the distance between him and the kids. "What're we whispering about?" he asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

All of them whip around to face him, eyes wide.

"You're James Potter!" one of them blurts out. "Number 17!"

James grins. "Yeah." He holds his hand out for the ball the kid is holding. "What do you say we play some footy?"

Another excited babble erupts as he hands the ball over, and James starts to juggle the ball between his feet.

"But you're a professional," one of the kids points out apprehensively.

James chuckles. "True. _And_ I'm much bigger than you. How about we play me vs. _all_ _six_ of you? Sound fair?"

"Oh, you're on!"

"Alright! First to five goals wins. Are the water bottles your goal posts?"

The kids all scuttle off to position themselves, bickering over who plays where, but eventually one of them meets James at the centre of their makeshift field for a kickoff. As an extra head start, James lets them have the ball first.

In the moment, James just sees six little kids playing footy in the park, like he and his friends used to do every single day after school and all afternoon on weekends, returning home muddy and occasionally bruised up. He'd loved that part of his childhood, and it was probably what he missed most about life before going pro – he couldn't really do that anymore, not since he turned fifteen and Chelsea informed him he was no longer allowed to play recreational football, in case he injured himself. After that, football just became something he did only at training and on match days with Chelsea.

Which was fine… but there's nothing quite like a casual game at the park. So when he spots the kids, and sees how excited they' are to see him, deciding to play with them is just the natural thing to do. He loves football, they love football, he's already feeling a bit nostalgic, and it's just good fun.

He doesn't expect (and truthfully, until halfway through their little game, he doesn't even notice) the crowd of spectators forming around them or the cellphone cameras on him. He's definitely not _that_ famous yet, but he has been putting on quite a show – tricky footwork and fancy tricks, extravagant goals that get the kids excited even though they're playing against him. He lets them have a few goals too because they're four feet tall and he's not an arsehole, but he still beats them because it's very hard not to. They're children, and he's a professional, and he's not keen on patronizing them.

At the end of the match, he high-fives each of them in turn. It's only when the crowd of spectators start to clap and cheer that he really becomes aware of them.

"Um, are any of these people one of your parents?" he asks the boys. One of them spots his mum in the crowd and waves her over.

She smiles at the boys as she comes over. "Who's this?"

" _Mum_." Her son quickly glances over his shoulder at James, his cheeks red with embarrassment. James' lips twitch. "He's on Chelsea!"

James chuckles. "I'm James. Sorry if I've kept you."

"Oh, no, thank you! I'm sure you've made their day, they're such fans."

"I'm happy to have. That was fun, lads."

One photo and several questions later (They're such fun questions, things only eleven-year-olds would ask him, all of them shouting over each other: _Messi or Ronaldo? Do you drive a Lambo? Have you scored 200 goals yet? Do you have a million quid?),_ James finally waves goodbye.

"I'm already bored of your fame," Sirius tells him when he rejoins them. "Next time we're just going to get the ice-cream without you."

James rolls his eyes. "Whatever, they were sweet."

"So were you," Remus says. "And a dozen people filmed it. I bet that's going to be a nice little viral moment, you keep accidentally making yourself more and more famous."

"It just happens to me. I don't know what to tell you."

Sirius shakes his head. "You were really born to be a celebrity."

x.x.x.x.x

Remus is right. The park footy match with the kids really does become a viral moment, and with startling speed. By the time they see Remus off on his train back to Cambridge and James and Sirius return to their flat, it's already all over the internet, and people love it. They think he's charming and sweet and adorable and down to earth, all sorts of positive buzzwords his publicist loves (she texts him to tell him as much). It's not bad, but it _is_ weird. Weird and a little terrifying to think that something random he does on a whim could get plastered all over the internet and shape a public opinion of him.

But still… good buzz is nice. Lately, a lot of what he sees about himself online has to do with Coleman. Somehow, word of their less than cordial relationship had gotten out and football fans had taken it upon themselves to speculate.

For his part, James has remained silent on the issue. He's shown up at training and delivered at matches and remained decidedly unaffected (at least, publicly. If he's wanted to punch something in private, that's his own business, isn't it?) by the often wildly untrue rumours. Being one himself, he knows football fans appreciate someone who just plays good football and minds his business – and that tactic has worked in his favour. It means that even if the article brings up his supposed feud with Coleman, it's often still primarily about him having yet another great performance.

The speculation gets tiring, though. And it only makes things more tense in training. And on the occasions that he makes a mistake… well, football fans are hardly known for their kind and forgiving nature. So he's glad to have had a good week. Two good matches, starting lineup again, he's closer to his teammates everyday, he got to see Remus, and after the game at the park… well, he's only human. He can't pretend he's not well chuffed when he gets this much love from fans.

He's beginning to think he can live with the Coleman situation after all. He can hardly expect _everything_ to be perfect, and he's had teammates that were hard to deal with before, it's not the end of the world. Things seems to be going rather well right now and he's quite certain that nothing can ruin it.

So naturally, something ruins it.

He's watching a Monday night Premier League recap the following evening, having a grand old time, when it happens. James always watches this program – training and travelling to play his own matches means he misses most of the others happening throughout the week, and he likes to watch the week's highlights at the end of it. It just so happens that he makes frequent appearances on it now.

" _Hussain with a stellar cross, it finds Potter, who skips around Carson on the outside. Mitchel tries to help but – JAMES POTTER! Another stunning goal from the youngster brings this match to a comfortable three – nil for Chelsea in the 76th minute!"_

James smiles as the goal is replayed again in slow motion, another angle showing off his clever dribble around Mitchel and the clean shot into the goal more clearly. He's quite proud of that one.

" _It's not a surprise to see Chelsea dominating in Swansea," the commentator in the clip continues. "But what a delight to watch these two play together, what a duo!"_

He's part of a duo! Amar Hussain and James Potter… eleven year old James couldn't have dreamed this up.

"Getting off to your own highlights again?" Sirius drops down onto the beanbag next to James'. "Arrogance is very unbecoming of a young man, you know."

James doesn't even glance away from the TV. "Shut the fuck up."

On screen, the program cuts back to the studio panel, which is always moderated by James' favourite commentator, Kyle Ray. Tonight he's joined by retired Portuguese footballer-turned-commentator, Roberto Nunes, and a sports reporter named Christopher Moore.

James takes a sip of his tea. "I can't help it if I make every week's highlights." Sirius snorts in amusement, but he ruffles James' hair with more affection than he'd ever otherwise let on.

"That was Potter's 28th appearance for Chelsea this season across all competitions, and his 19th goal," Kyle Ray says to his guests. Sirius whistles appreciatively. "He's been involved in 32 goals in total – impressive stats for anyone, absolutely unbelievable for a player his age, and in his first season of first team football."

"32 goal contributions across 28 games, unbelievable is right," Nunes echoes. "You know what else is unbelievable? With just over a month to go of the season, Chelsea has still not agreed on new terms with Potter."

Christopher Moore shakes his head in disbelief. "I mean, you have to wonder what they're playing at here. If _I_ had any decision-making power at Chelsea, I'd say give the man whatever he wants! Potter is not a player they want to lose, I think just about every club in Europe is waiting to snatch him up the second he's free."

"So if you're James Potter right now, what are you thinking?" Kyle asks the other two. "What's going through his mind?"

Sirius raises an eyebrow at James. "Yeah. What're you thinking, Potter?"

James snickers. "I dunno, they're about to tell us."

"Well when we caught up with him after the match on Saturday, here's what he said," Kyle says, leading into a clip of one of James' post match interviews in Swansea.

" _You've been having an incredible season so far, just completely unbelievable" the reporter says._ This was always their lead in – this reporter, like all the others, had started with questions about the match. James' performance, his thoughts about the way things had gone. But then he'd moved on with what he probably thought was a subtle transition into the question everyone actually wanted to know the answer to – and it may have been, had James not already experienced the very same thing a hundred times over.

 _James smiles. "Thank you! It's always nice when hard work pays off, this whole season has felt completely unreal."_ His voice is even, but he remembers his heart was still pounding, it was immediately after the match.

" _It's coming to an end now, and we know you're a free agent in a few months."_ There it is. Present James, and Sirius next to him, roll their eyes in sync. _TV James nods. "After a season like this, I can't imagine you wanting to leave. Can you tell the fans anything about your future with Chelsea?"_

 _TV James laughs lightly. "You know, we've still got a few weeks of matches left to play for the title and the UCL semi-final coming up, I'm just focused on training for that and bringing a few trophies back to the Bridge. It's a massive few weeks coming up for us, I'm really not thinking of anything beyond that right now."_

Sirius wrinkles his nose. "Ugh. You're like a politician."

On TV, the men on the panel laugh appreciatively.

"He speaks like a pro already," Kyle Ray says. "Very coy. But we know he's loved this club since he was a child, everyone knows it, every Chelsea fan certainly does." A picture of James in a Chelsea shirt from when he was three that he'd posted on Instagram pops up on the screen to support that claim. "What do we think, is he staying?"

Moore shakes his head. "If I'm James Potter, I'm thinking: I'm nineteen years old, I'm already becoming one of the best forwards in England, probably Europe. I've got a whole career ahead of me and about a dozen offers to choose from – I'm going wherever I get the sweetest deal."

Nunes nods in agreement. "I mean look, the kid probably has blue blood in his veins, we know he loves Chelsea, but I have to imagine something's going on that's keeping this deal from happening. Potter is one of the hottest names on the transfer market right now and he's at the club he's always loved. It's the most obvious thing in the world, so why is there no deal?"

"We might be able to shed some light on that," Kyle says.

James rolls his eyes again. "Fuck, please do."

Kyle Ray looks positively gleeful at whatever bit of gossip he has. "There's been reports that Michael Coleman has tied his future at the club to Potter's. It seems the veteran star is not willing to share Stamford Bridge."

James sits up at that. He catches Sirius watching him out off the corner of his eye, but says nothing.

Moore scoffs. "It's absolutely ridiculous, honestly. I mean Potter is a kid. You'd expect better from Coleman."

Kyle laughs. "Would you? I'm really not surprised. But from the club's perspective, if this is a choice they're forced to make, then the issue becomes, do we keep a club legend, someone with a proven track record of success – or do we put all our faith in, as we've mentioned – a kid with one season of proper first team experience?"

James' head is spinning. Is it true? Does Kingsley already know?

"I mean listen," Moore says. "If it's a season like the one Potter is having, give me the kid any day."

"I agree in a sense," Nunes cuts in. "If Potter had, say, one or two good games, I'd say Coleman is being absolutely ridiculous, but Potter's not worth the trouble for the club. It's not though, is it? Nineteen years old, and 32 contributions in 28 games – that's no joke. Potter's something very special and Coleman is right to be threatened. It's an underhanded and immature move, without a doubt. But it will push the club to choose between two players who there's already rumours can't play together. And Coleman is not a player that Chelsea can ignore, he's massive."

"Neither is Potter though," Kyle argues. "Last week, Samuel Aguado said he's not seen a player like James Potter since he saw a young Lionel Messi play, and that's not a light comparison to make. But in this scenario, it might actually be fitting."

"You look at it from Coleman's perspective and, you know, he's a spectacular player, no doubt about it. One of the very best in the sport. But hearing people call Potter a young Messi, Ronaldo, hearing Stamford Bridge chanting his name, you almost feel for the guy."

"I dunno, to do this the week before Chelsea's biggest match of the season seems – "

Sirius swipes the remote from James' lap and turns the TV off. "That's enough."

James frowns at him, but he's relieved. People talking about him does make him a little anxious – he simultaneously wishes he didn't know anything and that he knew every single word ever said about him. People talking about him – reporters, commentators, television hosts, people he looks up to, people other people listen to – it's as unnerving as it is addicting. But it's mostly been positive, up until now. "I was watching that."

"You're going to drive yourself crazy watching this shit. When did this go from a football recap to a gossip chat show, anyways?"

"When Coleman decided to pick a fight with me. Can you fucking believe this?" James drags a hand through his hair irately.

Sirius frowns. "You didn't know anything about this?"

"No! I mean he's still a dickhead in training, but I never thought he'd drop an ultimatum like this. It never even occurred to me that he could."

"You think it's true?"

"Yeah. I'll talk to Kingsley about it but… yeah. This show only reports credible information. If it wasn't true, Coleman would've refuted it, but it's more than likely he and his agent leaked it themselves."

"Well, whatever. Fuck him. You heard those guys, Aguado thinks you're a young Messi. I doubt anything Coleman says matters now."

James isn't so sure about that, but he forces himself to stay calm. It's probably nothing. And even if it isn't, it's best to at least wait until Kingsley tells him if it's going to change anything before he loses his mind.

Still, there's a little drop of panic bubbling in his gut.

* * *

"Three, two, one. Run."

On the trainer's cue, James runs. His heart is thundering in his chest. His legs and lungs and everything is burning.

"9.6 seconds, excellent." The trainer at the other end pushes a button on his stopwatch and makes a note on his clipboard.

James hardly hears him. He's busy pulling air into his lungs as he turns around and prepares to do it again.

"Three, two, one. Run."

Ten seconds of rest feels like nothing. James runs back to the other side. A 50-meter sprint has never felt longer. Every step is laborious, every breath hurts.

"9.7 seconds. Just two more," the trainer says. Two more. He can do two more.

9.8 seconds. One more.

9.7 seconds again. Fuck his need to push himself this far. The others aren't making 10 seconds, he's sure.

If anyone says anything to him, he doesn't hear it. He takes the bottle a trainer offers him and squeezes some of the cold liquid into his mouth. He wants to collapse, but he keeps walking while he waits for his heart rate to slow and his body to cool down.

God, his chest hurts. His calves are aching. He's quite certain his quads and hamstrings are gone forever, goodbye functioning legs. Fuck fitness. Fuck football. Fuck Aguado. Fuck the ice bath he'll have to take later if he doesn't want to feel this for the rest of his life. There's no way this is worth it.

"Damn, Potter." Amar falls into step beside him and slings an arm around his shoulders. "You need to stop showing us up like that, apparently you didn't miss a single run."

James shrugs his arm off. "If you put any weight on me, I'm going to collapse." He's still out of breath. "Don't make me talk."

Amar laughs. "This is the most insane drill I've ever done, and I'm old as shit."

"You're 28, mate."

"And in the ten years of my professional career, I've never done anything like that."

James groans. "Aguado literally hates us."

100 meters in 20 seconds. 20 seconds of rest. Repeat for 7 minutes. 75 meters in 15 seconds. 15 seconds of rest. Repeat for 7 minutes. 50 meters in 10 seconds. 10 seconds of rest. Repeat for 7 minutes.

Yes, he definitely fucking hates them. Right now, James hates him too.

"Yeah, but that's why we're the best."

"Fuck being the best, I'm retiring."

"I bet Coleman would love that." Amar hesitates for a moment, glancing uncertainly at James. "I guess you've heard what he said?"

James squirts more water into his mouth, the movement not quite as aggressive as he means for it to be, being that his entire body feels like a lifeless noodle right now. "About not wanting to stay if I do? Yeah."

"Wait, what the fuck? Are you serious?"

James turns to look at the captain. "Is that not what you're talking about?"

"Shit. I thought it was about what he said to the paps yesterday. Figured that's why you were so pissed during the morning training."

James can't deny that. He _had_ been pissed. It wasn't his most graceful training session, but his anger had simmered under his skin since Kyle Ray last night and he'd snapped the moment he saw Coleman's smug face. His anger pushed him, and he'd been able to meet Coleman move for every unnecessarily aggressive move. Coleman's vaguely irritated face and his increasingly sloppy play as the frustration got to him was all the satisfaction James needed – he wasn't used to James actually entertaining his ugly tactics. Aguado had pursed his lips and shaken his head at the end, and James is sure he'll hear about it later. But he doesn't care. Not right now.

James stops walking. "What did he say?"

"I think you'd better just… watch the clip when you get inside. I feel like a bitch even repeating it. Or better yet, don't watch it at all and ignore his existence."

James sighs in irritation. "Shit. Fuck this guy."

"He dipped out halfway through the 50-meter set, if it helps."

"It doesn't matter if I do better or care more, they'll still choose him if it comes down to it. This club revolves around him and you. No offence, you're not a dick about it."

Amar chuckles. "None taken. Look, just play the way you always do. Focus on the semi-final. Let that do the talking. Everything else is out of your control but if shit does hit the fan, at least no one will be able to say a word about _you_."

"I don't think that matters to me."

"It matters." Amar clasps James' shoulder. "And I have your back. I'm the captain, and I'm going to back you, okay?"

James drags a hand through his sweaty hair. Ugh. He needs a shower immediately. "Thank you."

Amar nods. "Don't think about this too much, don't let it affect your game. Nothing's going to happen until the season ends anyways."

"I know," James sighs. "But it's hardly easy to ignore shit like this."

"I know. But look… you've shown him up in two UCL games in a row now. Between you and me? I think if you do it again on Saturday, you'll put this thing to bed for good."

"Really?"

"One is a fluke. Two you can call a coincidence. But three? That's all you. They'd be mad to let you go if you got the team to a UCL final in your first season. Not even Coleman can do anything about that."

James nods, letting that thought sink in. It makes sense. "I think you're probably right."

"I am. I gotta get to a session with Alina, I just wanted to check on you first. Go eat something." Amar claps James' shoulder and jogs off the pitch.

James heads back towards his trainers, who are waiting to discuss the day's performance with him. He listens intently to every word they have to say, forces himself to focus.

He does not allow his mind to wander until he's on his way back to the dressing room. What the fuck had Coleman said about him?

James showers and changes before he searches it up, the feel of his training kit against his sweat slick skin is more unbearable than his curiosity. Only when he's showered and dried and dressed does he tuck his earphones in. He can't help making a face as he types in _michael coleman_ in the search bar _._

There's article after article, the tabloids have had a field day over whatever free bit of gossip Coleman had offered up.

 _Coleman slams Chelsea teammate James Potter_

 _Trouble at the Bridge? Coleman's scathing opinion on Potter_

 _Michael Coleman has a few words for James Potter, and none of them are nice!_

And on and on and on. James scowls and taps on one of them at random, hating that he might be contributing to this blood sucking rag's revenue in some small way, but unable to help himself.

It's everywhere. James has made a point of limiting his social media use lately – all the noise distracts him from training, and he can't deal with that mid-season – but he's not sure how he had missed _this._

James scrolls past all the pointless text – some knob had really gotten a journalism degree just to write this, honestly – and skips right to the video.

In the video, a few paparazzi are following Coleman while he walks to his car, all of them speaking over each other as they try to get him to answer one of their questions. One voice asks, "There's some interesting reports about you and Potter coming out – what about him worries you so much?"

James can see the irritation on Coleman's face immediately. He can see the progression of _listen to your publicist and ignore it_ to _but I really fucking hate that kid_ to _whatever, I'm Michael Fucking Coleman_ all play out on his face before he says, "Nothing. He's a brat that had everything handed to him, and he's finally learning a lesson about hard work."

"You're saying you're just trying to teach him a lesson about hard work?" the pap pushes.

"I'm saying he belongs at a debutante ball, not on a football pitch."

Then he gets into his car and slams the door.

James closes the video. He doesn't read the article, but as he closes the tab, he catches _Sleekeazy_ somewhere in the lines of text. _Great._ So that's the take the tabloids are taking? James Potter needs to be taught a lesson about hard work because his daddy is rich and gave him everything?

It's stupid, of course. He knows his skill on the pitch speaks for itself, no one could have bought him a career if he couldn't play. But the thought that anyone might think he didn't work for this, that he didn't fight for every single minute he'd gotten on the pitch… in spite of his best efforts to ignore it, it gets under his skin. Right where Coleman intended it to be.

He's about to shove his phone in his pocket when he gets a text from Sirius.

 _don't look at the tabloids_

James' lips twitch.

 _ **too late**_

 _okay good then look at twitter he's a fucking joke_

 _ **can't rn**_

 _ **i don't want to see**_

 _ **but pls send me the funny ones**_

James puts his phone on silent and slips it into his pocket.

He's hungry, and by the time he's done eating, he's sure Sirius will have bombarded him with enough memes to get him through to the final item on his schedule for the day: a physical checkup and then a session with Alina that he's desperately looking forward to. He needs a massage. He might fall asleep in the middle of it, but he needs that too.

In the dining room, James loads his plate up – so many carbs, but he's sure he's burned three days worth of calories and his body is screaming for them – then heads to the lounge next door. He's so hungry, he can't even think about how pissed he is. That's one good thing about Aguado's intense training regimen: he's usually too fucking tired to be angry about anything.

Though most of the squad has already left for the day, a few of the boys are in the lounge while they wait for something or another. Williams is asleep on one of the sofas. At the other end of the room, Jordi and one of their defenders that James rather likes, Finlay Anderson, are playing darts.

James shovels a forkful of pasta into his mouth as he walks over. Fin holds a dart out to him as he approaches.

James puts his plate down and, still working on chewing the mouthful of pasta, he throws the dart. It hits the bullseye.

Jordi wrinkles his nose. "Fuck your perfect aim, mate."

James swallows. "Just picture Coleman's face. Works like a charm."

Jordi snorts. "Pretty sure PR is kindly asking him to shut the fuck up right now. Fake apology coming soon."

"Your father really owns Sleekeazy?" Fin asks.

James laughs. "I'm surprised everyone didn't already know that."

"We don't all spend our free time researching your life story."

"It's true." Jordi throws another dart and grins playfully at James. "I'm getting pretty sick of hearing about you, actually."

"I'm getting pretty sick of hearing about me too," James grumbles, and he shovels more food into his mouth.

"It'll pass," Jordi assures him.

Finlay shrugs. "I mean neither of us was this young when it started happening to us. And neither of us had a Coleman after us. It might not."

James snorts. "Thanks, Fin. Always inspiring."

"So what're you gonna do?" Jordi asks.

James shakes his head. "Nothing, probably. He doesn't need my help making himself look like an arse."

"Too right. Wish he'd kept his mouth shut one week longer though." Jordi scowls. "We're playing a semi final second leg in a week, for fuck's sake."

"Honestly though," James sighs. "It must be nice knowing you can do whatever the fuck you want and expect no consequences."

"No way he doesn't at least get fined for this. It's too messy for the club to ignore," Fin says.

Jordi shakes his head. "It's Mikey, who knows. What about the other thing? Demanding you get released to another club if he's going to stay?"

James shrugs again, though internally, he feels sick to his stomach. "That's hardly in my control."

Jordi claps his shoulder. "You'll be fine. And you've got options besides, haven't you? _Every_ option, really."

Every option, sure. Though several have made their interest known, James isn't sure if he can stomach playing at an English club that isn't Chelsea. But he could go to Germany. He could go to Italy. Or Spain or Portugal or France. Bayern and Milan and Barcelona and Porto and PSG are all great clubs, he could play in the Champions League with all of them, and every single one wants him.

Yes, he certainly has options. But none of them are really options when all he wants is this, is Chelsea. To keep living in London and keep training at Cobham and keep playing at Stamford Bridge and hearing a sea of blue chant his name. And if Coleman wants to take this from him… well, fuck him.

He's James Potter. He doesn't intend to go down easy.

x.x.x.x.x

"Tweet something irrelevant."

"No problem." James kicks his feet up on the coffee table. "All my tweets are irrelevant."

Priyanka Patil, James' publicist and possibly the single coolest person that he has ever met (she drives a Porsche, but he's never seen her wear anything but leggings and sweatshirts), rolls her eyes. "Show everyone just how unbothered you are," she instructs, pacing from one end of her massive office to the other, cellphone in hand. She fixes her eyes on James, who is lounging on a sofa. "Maybe a bit of subtle shade? And get your feet off my table, this isn't your house."

"I'd never put my feet up on the table at my house, have you met my mother?"

"Yes, honey. I'm right here." Euphemia gives him a disapproving look. "Get your feet off her table, and apologize."

"Sorry, Pri." James grins and drops his feet to the floor.

His legs are so tired, and he just wants to be at home and in bed. He wants to sleep for three days straight. Instead, he's in Priyanka's office with his mum and Kingsley. Priyanka had thought it best to discuss the Coleman situation as soon as possible, before James did something dumb. Clever of her. Very smart. That's why they'd hired her. But as soon as possible meant directly after that hellish day of training. Really, fuck Coleman. Ruining his life on and off the pitch.

James stifles a yawn. "Irrelevant and slightly shady is my entire brand, I'm on it."

"Shockingly, the public quite likes you. People think you're sweet. And they find your incompetence with the media _refreshing_ and _charming_."

"Rude. I _am_ refreshing and charming."

"And you're decidedly not at fault in this situation," Pri continues, as if James hadn't spoken at all. "There's not much you need to do to clean it up, just don't make it worse. I've been in communication with Chelsea. Coleman will apologize publicly, and the club will make their stance clear with a fine against him. He will not be missing any games, as per your own request – good move, if it cost the team a match it might remind fans that he's good. You will be asked to participate in some sort of public reconciliation, a photo op or – "

"Absolutely not," James interrupts.

Pri smiles. "My thoughts exactly. You're remaining decidedly uninvolved. Let this continue to unravel as a one-sided rant. If Coleman wants to create a reputation for himself as a jealous bully that picks on younger players, let him. You remain – and I'm truly not sure how you've managed to convince anyone of this – the _mature_ side."

James grins. "Keep being perfect. Noted."

"If anyone asks you about him in public, don't answer. If you're asked in an interview, don't flatter him, you're not a pushover. But don't insult him, remember, you're not participating."

"Then what do I say?"

"Skirt around it the way you skirt around any questions about your future at Chelsea. You're focused on finishing the season strong. You're not thinking about anything besides bringing home some trophies."

James nods.

"So, you've just come off the pitch. Chelsea lost, and your performance was subpar."

James wrinkles his nose. "Can you try to keep your fake scenarios realistic? I'm never subpar."

Priyanka ignores him. "A reporter asks you if the tension with Coleman is affecting your performance. What do you say?"

"Obviously, that wasn't our best performance, and – "

"No," Priyanka interrupts. "Don't suggest you were bad, and definitely don't suggest your teammates were bad, unprompted. All you were asked is if a situation is _affecting_ your performance."

James thinks about it for a moment, then tries again. "Playing good football is all that matters on the pitch. We've got a few weeks left to go of the season, securing that title is all I'm thinking about right now." He gives Pri a sly smile. "And I'm just going to keep working hard to make that happen."

Priyanka grins. "Excellent. No direct mention of Coleman, you're focused on winning, and a subtle reminder that you've been working hard, and you will continue to."

James sits up straight just to bow dramatically. "Thank you very much." He slumps in his seat again.

"Same things to keep in mind during your UEFA interview with Jordi Price on Friday. That's nothing to worry about though, it'll be at Cobham. Chelsea won't allow anything controversial."

"How do I already have a controversy? I literally do _nothing_ except play football and sleep. Like I literally don't have a life anymore." He pauses and waves his hand dismissively. "Actually, forget it, I don't care. I'm so tired, can I go home and sleep now?"

Euphemia pats his cheek affectionately, a worried little frown tugging at her lips. That alone makes James sit up properly and blink the fatigue out of his eyes. He doesn't want her to worry about him.

"In a moment," Kingsley says. "We've discussed this already, but I think it's time you seriously consider some of the offers on the table."

James chews on his lip anxiously and turns to his agent. "I'm not going to give this up just because one arsehole wants me gone, Kingsley."

"I'm not telling you to give anything up. Of course we're not giving anything up."

"If I double down on my interest in a move, at the same time that Coleman _insists_ I be forced to move, how is that not just the ideal situation for Chelsea to actually sell me?"

"I've spoken to the club already. Letting you go is still not an option. The fact that they're negotiating with both you and Coleman at the same time and he's dragged you into his deal certainly complicates things, but it doesn't change the fact that you're an exceptional player, fans love you, and they want to keep you."

James sighs in frustration. "We should've just accepted the previous offer, put this whole thing to bed."

Kingsley shakes his head. "So Coleman could demand you sit on the bench _and_ you'd be locked in for five years? He doesn't care if your contract has five months or five years on it, he'll want you gone regardless."

James makes a face. "Stop being right all the time, can't you just let me wallow?"

Kingsley's lips twitch. "Right now, you have leverage because if you don't reach a deal in time and walk free, it's a massive loss to the club. We've made the right decision at every turn. We'll continue to make the right decisions. Just trust me."

"I do trust you."

"Good. This sort of thing isn't common, but it's not unheard of. Coleman complicates things, but it's not as big of a deal as it feels like right now. We'll keep monitoring how this affects your time at Chelsea, but in the meantime, just keep doing what you're doing."

"Keep being perfect. Noted."

"And look… I'm still pushing for Chelsea because it's what you want. But I'd like you to know now, I don't think it's the best place for you right now."

James raises an eyebrow. "What? Why?"

"Chelsea is a great club. But it's not the only great club. You can get a better deal, more playtime, more exposure, and less drama elsewhere."

"I told you, I'm not prepared to give this up yet."

"Okay. I won't ask you to. I'm only asking you to keep an open mind."

"Fine. I have been." James stands up and stretches. "Well, I think that's enough for today. Are you done bumming me out?"

Kingsley frowns, but he nods.

James turns to his mother. "Take me home, mummy."

x.x.x.x.x

The following day brings with it what is perhaps the longest hour of James' entire life.

Longer than that time when he was twelve and pretending to be a Yu-Gi-Oh! duelist and his over the top hand flailing (at the time, he thought he looked mad cool) had knocked half of his mum's antique 19th century perfume bottles off their display.

He'd stared at the shattered glass on the floor, shell shocked, for a good long while. And then he'd simply waited for his mum to come home and dole out her punishment, imagining every possible scenario. He'd never wanted a pet, or a younger sibling more than he did in that moment, when he desperately needed someone to blame.

Longer, even, than the time he had taken a train to Manchester for some festival his girlfriend at the time wanted to go to, and they'd had a great time for all of about two hours before the day devolved into one big, long, never ending fight over something he couldn't even remember two weeks later. They broke up on the way home, but still had to sit next to each other on the train.

None of that could even begin to compare to spending an hour sitting in an office next to Michael Coleman, _discussing their issues_ with Aguado, a sports psychologist, and a Chelsea PR representative.

After that video had come out and the training session that followed, Aguado insisted the situation be dealt with swiftly. He'd already said his spiel about refusing to allow this nonsense to continue, that they have too many important matches coming up to let this distract them any longer.

James had forced himself to admit that he felt tension, and he felt like Coleman's aggression towards him was affecting his performance in training. He'd like to focus on improving his game, not avoiding an altercation with a teammate, please and thank you.

Because what was his other option? _More_ sessions? He'd really, truly, honestly rather give up his career and die than do this ever again.

Coleman seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because so far, he's been more or less cooperative (albeit extraordinarily annoying). It's probably worse for him, most of the session had been James sitting by uncomfortably while Coleman, a grown man, was chastised for bad behaviour and asked to talk about his reasoning for it. James is glad he hasn't been asked to carry any blame, but it was still a decidedly undesirable circumstance to be spending an hour with Aguado in.

Plus, he's had to practice some extreme restraint. Coleman had waxed poetic about the pressure he was under and the difficulties in his personal life – bullshit he'd definitely made up to deflect responsibility.

"Michael's official apology will be released this afternoon," the PR rep, a tall woman called Miranda informs James now. Miranda is sporting a blonde bob and the sunniest smile James has ever seen. He's never seen someone who looks so much like their job description in his life. "I think now is a good time to discuss how you would like to respond, James."

James maintains the neutral expression he has forced onto his face since the moment he stepped into the room. He keeps his hands locked in his lap, refusing himself even the most minor of nervous fidgets. Not in front of Aguado. Certainly not in front of Coleman. "I don't want to respond."

Miranda smiles indulgently. "I understand. However, we do feel that a little olive branch, so to speak, may put this matter to rest faster. A quick twitter post even, perhaps a photo for social media."

James holds his ground. "No." He looks directly at Coleman when he speaks. "I think Coleman putting the matter to rest himself by not provoking it any further is enough."

James can see the twitch in Coleman's features as he holds back a scowl, trying to maintain his false calm. "You don't think any sort of response is warranted to end this situation?"

"You publicly took shots at me. You're apologizing for the sake of your own image, not for me. If you can tell me what exactly you'd like me to apologize to _you_ for, I'll consider it." James' stare is hard and unflinching. He's about had it with this clown. "So, what exactly would you like an apology for?"

 _For out playing you? For showing you up in training? For performing in matches? For earning support from Chelsea fans?_ And, that's just it, isn't it? Coleman has no legitimate reason to hate him besides jealousy, and he'll never admit that. James is sure he looks far too satisfied right now, but he can't be arsed to care anymore.

Coleman's nostrils flare. "Fine, if you're not concerned with this nonsense in the media before a UCL semi – "

"I personally would have loved it if you'd considered that before you _created_ this situation. But since you didn't, I'd appreciate it if you'd just let it end."

"I agree," Miranda cuts in, trying to latch onto _something_ that might be helpful to her. "Which is why some sort of statement from you might be helpful."

"I think we may need another session to sort this out fully," the psychologist suggests, glancing between the two footballers with some mix of fascination and worry.

Oh God. _Please no._

James shakes his head immediately. "I don't have a problem here, I'm entirely focused on training and our upcoming matches. But I won't apologize for something I haven't done. And I won't take any responsibility for a situation I've been trying to avoid since the beginning, just to help Coleman repair his image. He didn't need my help creating this situation, and I'm not offering it up for him to end it." He turns back to Coleman. "I don't care if you have an issue with me. It truly doesn't matter to me if you like me or not. But just keep it to yourself and let me train, this is literally our job. This situation will end on its own the moment you stop inciting it."

Coleman opens his mouth to speak, but Aguado abruptly stands up and claps his hands together. "Well. I think that's a stance we can all agree on," he says. Everyone in the room turns to look at him.

James could swear he sees the hint of a smile on the manager's face.

Miranda simply nods. If Samuel Aguado has made up his mind, there's nothing left to say. James is sure she'd rather throw the vase on the desk at the wall, but she gives them all her bright, professional smile. "Alright. I suppose we can call it a day, then."

Aguado smiles. "Excellent. Thank you all very much for your time."

Coleman gets up and swiftly exits the room, not glancing behind him at any of them.

Aguado makes to leave too, but he stops briefly on his way past James to the door. He clasps James' shoulder and gives him a little nod before he goes.

Suddenly in a much better mood, James smiles at the remaining people in the room. He, at least, has the good grace to thank them before he leaves.

* * *

" _That's a stance we can all agree on_. And then he just left?"

James grins across his coffee table at Lily, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor, pencil in hand. Her notes are spread across the table as she works. "He squeezed my shoulder and nodded on his way out."

Lily laughs, the pretty sound of it landing gently on James' skin. "Brilliant. The man is a fucking legend. And what did Coleman say?"

"Nothing, obviously. He just left." James is still giddy at the memory of Coleman's face on his way out.

"So is this the end of it?"

James shakes his head. "Doubtful. He did back off in training afterwards, so it might be the end of his giving me a hard time in training at least. But there's no way he's letting this go just like that. It's still all over the press and I doubt he's taking kindly to Aguado obviously taking a side."

"Ugh, I can't wait for him to be over. Show him up at another UCL match and he's as good as done, I'll buy his coffin myself."

James snorts. "I love you, Evans."

Lily gives him a rather tender smile. "I know this week seems stressful but… he's making himself look like an arse, not you. _And_ , that video of you with those kids? Nauseatingly adorable. I'd say it's actually a pretty good press week for you."

"That's what Pri said."

"Huh. Maybe I should be a PR person."

"You probably could be." James slides off the sofa and onto the floor across from her. He picks up one of her worksheets. He'd dropped by to get a cappuccino at The Rabbit Hole in the morning, like he did every Thursday. But he hadn't had much time then, so at the end of her shift, she'd come here instead of going home. "Your handwriting is horrendous, by the way."

"Okay, rude and uncalled for." Lily snatches the sheet back. "It's fine!"

"It's barely legible."

"Are you sure that's not just because it's maths?"

"Excuse you. I may not be a mathematical genius, but I can _read_."

Lily glances up at him. "Speaking of, can I ask you something?"

"You're going to."

"Sirius told me you had really good grades in school and actually got into some amazing unis. Why do you downplay that?"

James sighs. "Sirius just never shuts up, huh?"

"Come on, seriously."

James shrugs. "I don't know. I just… I made a choice, right? Football over what my dad wanted me to do, and whatever happens now I have to live with it. It sort of like, I dunno. It makes me feel better to think that I couldn't have done anything else anyways, so this was definitely the right choice. Makes everything easier to swallow." He watches Lily as he speaks, and she nods understandingly. However dumb are insane something sounds to him, she seems to understand. "And it's sort of true besides. Like Sirius is just academically gifted, he worked half as hard as I did and pulled A*'s out of his arse. I had to put in like three times as much work as anyone else for the same result, and even then, I fell short sometimes."

Lily smiles affectionately at him. "You loon. You can know that football is what you want to do and what you _should_ be doing, without erasing the fact that you're a smart and hardworking person outside it too, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

"You know what I think?" She asks. James raises an eyebrow, knowing she's about to tell him anyways. Lily sits up on her knees. "You're one of those crazy and annoying arseholes who's actually good at _everything,_ but don't consider being second best as being good enough. You think you're only good at football because you're better at it than anyone else you know. So even though you got good grades, the fact that you had to try harder and sometimes did worse than other people frustrates you. Because you're used to being the best at something, you can't tolerate it when you're just _good_ , but not the _best_."

James stares at her. "Shit, Dr. Evans. Just tear me to shreds, why don't you?"

"You realize how unhealthy and insane that is, right? You _can't_ be the best at everything. And trying to be is gonna make you crazy."

"Joke's on you, I'm already crazy, so it's all good."

"Not really. I worry about you sometimes, you know."

James laughs, but Lily is serious. "Why?"

"Because some things are out of your control, but you can't accept that, and you tear yourself up over it. Like that match against Liverpool, _you_ alone didn't lose. Your team did. But you had one shot hit the crossbar and thought that's it, this is the end."

"My shot hitting the crossbar _is_ something I can control. By taking better shots. So I trained for it and now I take better shots."

"You put _so_ much pressure on yourself and you're so hard on yourself when everything doesn't work out exactly the way you want it to."

"So? I want to be better, so I put in the time. What's wrong with that? And okay, pot? Hi, I'm kettle."

Lily's mouth drops. " _What?"_

"You're not gonna get kicked out of Imperial or die if you don't get an A* on one report. And I'll bet you anything you were the top student at your school and now that you're in a class with a dozen kids who were the top student at theirs, and maybe you're not _the best_ _at_ _everything_ anymore, you think you suddenly suck."

Lily opens her mouth. Then closes it again.

James grins triumphantly at her. "Ha, I win. You're fucking brilliant and one hundred percent just as psychotic as I am. But that's what makes us amazing."

Lily wrinkles her nose at him. "God, I hate your speeches."

"I hate your psych evaluations, and yet." Lily rolls her eyes at him, and he smiles. "So, how's your week going?"

"Decent. Not too exciting." She smiles slightly, but then fights it back. "There was… but I mean, it's not gonna go anywhere."

James raises an eyebrow. "You realize you skipped an entire conversation there? Tell me."

Lily hesitates for a moment, but gives in. "Do you remember Dr. Green?"

"Your prof who's in a band, editor of a bio-inspired design journal, wears combat boots, works on some of the country's most important diagnostics research, and is your number one hero in life? Obviously, continue."

"Besides Amy Poehler, but yes." Lily grins. "So, I proposed this idea to her."

"Fuck yeah!" James yells, slamming his hands onto the table.

Lily laughs. "I didn't even say what it was!"

"But you still finally spoke to her about the work you wanna do! I got excited, sorry, continue."

Lily smiles. "One of her research topics is focused on increasing the accessibility and affordability of vital imaging techniques, and I've been following her progress. I kind of think it's the perfect place for me to work, like just to get started at least, and I had some ideas. I met with her yesterday and she loved what I had to say and told me she'd love to have me."

"Lily, that's amazing. I told you you're brilliant and ahead of the game and – "

"But she doesn't have the funds to take on anyone else and pursue any new ideas right now."

"Oh." James frowns, deflating. "Shit. I'm sorry."

"Yeah. But then she told me about this student research grant. If I wrote a really good proposal and got it, I could work with her. She'd oversee my work, I might even be able to get my name on one of her publications, and that would be huge. It would be such great experience so early in my degree, and I'd get an amazing reference out of it. Plus, I could stay in London for the summer and make some extra money working on something I actually give a shit about."

"That sounds perfect. Obviously you have to go for it."

"I'm getting _way_ ahead of myself. That grant is never awarded to first years. I don't want to hype myself up and then be disappointed when I don't get it."

"Except that you're exceptionally brilliant, Lily. If anyone is going to be the first first year to get it, it's going to be you. I mean you already have an idea that's good enough to get Dr. Green's approval and that's hardly a small thing. Don't you think her recommendation will help?"

Lily drops her cheek into her palm. He can see the hope kindling behind her eyes. "Yeah, I guess it would."

"Well there you go. You have to at least try, you'll hate yourself if you don't."

"I know."

"And I'll miss you if you go back to Cokeworth for the summer."

"Me too."

"I don't know how much help I'd be with a research proposal personally, but Sleekeazy has a research division. They award a few grants for research relevant to work they do and there's an office that reviews proposals. I can ask mum to put you in touch with someone there. I mean Sleekeazy doesn't do medical research yet, but you might at least get some help on your proposal or something, possibly a helpful reference?"

Lily stares at him. "Seriously? That would be incredible. Does your mum work at Sleekeazy?"

James frowns at her. _Shit_. In all their months of being friends… had this really never come up? "How do you not know? You stalked me online the week we met!"

"I mean, not so thoroughly that I'd know what your _mum_ does, though it's weird it never came up. I know your ranking of top ten vegetables."

"My mum… does work at Sleekeazy. In a sense."

Lily raises an eyebrow. "In what sense?"

"In the sense that… erm. Do you remember when I told you my dad owns a business?"

"Yeah, what…" Lily trails off. He watches her eyes widen as understanding pour into her features. "Your dad… _no._ "

James cringes as he nods his confirmation.

"Your dad's business that you said is _no big deal_ is Sleekeazy?"

James only nods again.

"Holy fuck. Your dad _owns_ Sleekeazy?"

"Yeah. He founded it."

"Holy _fuck_."

"Yeah."

Lily looks completely stunned. "Why did this never come up?"

"I don't know! I don't talk about it. People get really weird about it."

"Of course they do. Sleekeazy is like… it's like…"

"Massive? Yeah."

"I have so many of your products."

"Ugh, don't say stuff like that. They're not _mine_."

"Sorry. But hold on, so when you talk about choosing football over your father's company, it's not some little shop. It's…"

"An international haircare and cosmetics giant, one of the biggest names in the beauty industry, and my father's life's work? Yes."

Lily laughs. "Shit."

"Yeah. Does it change your mind about… anything?"

"Of course not. I just… see how complicated it is now."

James lets out a heavy breath. "Yeah."

Lily narrows her eyes at James. "Okay, so first there was the football thing. Now it's the Sleekeazy thing. Are there any other secrets?"

"No, that's the last one. I don't have time to be a masked superhero and I'm too scared of hurting my dad's image to commit a crime."

Lily laughs. "You're sure?"

"Positive. And please never bring this up again."

"Okay. But… yeah. If your mum could put me in touch with someone, that would be awesome. I'd love to meet her, by the way. I'd feel better about asking for a favour if I could do it in person."

James hesitates for just a moment, but he nods. "Sure. I'm sure she'd like to meet you."

Lily frowns at him. "What was that?"

"What?"

"That pause? Do you not want me to meet your mum?"

James doesn't know how to explain to Lily that he has a colossal, thoroughly distracting, life ruining crush on her and his mum will pick up on it instantly and he doesn't know what that will lead to but he's terrified of whatever it might be. Lily obviously can't know that, so he obviously can't tell her she can't meet his mother. "Nah, I was just trying to think of when she'll be free. You could come to dinner sometime? We usually have family dinners on Wednesdays, minus my dad now for obvious reasons. Sirius will be there too."

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." Lily gets up and stretches. "I need a break. I'm gonna make tea, do you want some?"

"Yes please." James takes his seat on the sofa again and turns on the TV.

"New Girl," Lily calls from the kitchen, where she's putting the kettle on for tea. James obliges and picks a random episode of the show to watch.

Schmidt is looking over a stall trying to catch a glimpse of Nick's penis when Lily joins him on the sofa and hands him his cup of tea.

"Is this a real thing? Do guys really want to see each other's penises?"

James snorts. "No. And definitely not like _that_."

Lily nestles against him, leaning into his chest. James' heart stutters. They've spent so many evenings like this – him reading, Lily studying, then drinking tea and nestling up on the sofa at one of their flats, just winding down from the day together. He wonders, sometimes, if she knows what this does to him.

"You're right about what you said, you know," Lily says.

"I know. But which thing?"

She laughs. "About me also putting a ton of pressure on myself."

"Yeah, you're a ridiculous hypocrite. But maybe we both do need to take it down a notch sometimes."

Lily nods. "But I feel like it's too early for that. This is when we need to work for everything."

"I know, that's what I keep saying. But it's probably kind of unhealthy."

"Yeah. Good thing I call you out on it and then you call me out to one up me."

James chuckles. "I'm glad you keep me in check."

Lily sits up suddenly and looks at him, all humour lost. "I know it's crazy because I've known you for, what, four months? But I can't say any of this stuff to anyone else. Or hear it from anyone else, for that matter. You're really my best friend."

James smiles and nudges her shoulder, but there's something like an ache in his chest. "Stop, you're so sappy."

"I'm serious. Being around you reminds me that it doesn't matter if I'm young or out of my depth, I can still be fucking good at what I do. _You_ are. You push me harder than anyone to do things I'm afraid of, to be better. And I appreciate it more than you know."

"Wow." Now the humour is lost from him too. He's touched, completely fucking blown away that she thinks this highly of him. "I hope it's not crazy, because you're mine too. You keep me in check and on the ground and I love you for it."

Lily laughs and snuggles up to him again. "Fuck, we really are sappy."

"You brought it out of me. I could hardly let you say you appreciate me for pushing you to be better and then be like, _I know, thanks."_

"I'm glad I met you," she says.

"I know, thanks. That's what everyone says when they meet me."

Lily elbows him. "Okay, calm down."

James laughs. "I was trying to reign in the sap. I'm glad I met you, too."

Lily is silent for a while, focused on New Girl or lost in her own head. Then she says, "How come your dad owns Sleekeazy but your hair looks like that?"

James scoffs in offense. "Okay, ouch. Just go right for it then."

"Don't cry about it, I love your hair." She leans away from him just enough to reach up and run her fingers through his hair. James bites the insides of his cheeks.

"Nothing works," he says, if only to distract himself from the feel of her fingers gently tugging on the strands. "Dad even tried to develop a product specifically for me, but it's impossible. It's his greatest failure. _I'm_ his greatest failure."

Lily abruptly drops her hand from his hair and puts her empty mug on the table. She leans into him again. "Ironic and tragic, that."

"Maybe I should buzz it off. A peace offering for him."

"Woah, don't even joke about that."

That's how it goes for a while. Lily nestled up next to him, watching New Girl and talking about nothing. He tries not to think it often, but he thinks it now: does she know? Does she feel this too?

Because he can't help thinking that yeah, they're friends, but he doesn't cuddle with any of his other friends and they don't look at him with the most tender of gazes and say things like _that_. Admiring, affectionate, deeply personal things like that.

But she'd said she wanted to be his friend, even when he hadn't been particularly subtle about fancying her. And she hadn't really overtly said anything to the contrary since. And he doesn't want to be the prick who assumes it and ruins their friendship and drives her away.

So he just keeps quiet and takes in (or suffers) the feel of her cheek against his chest. As friends.

x.x.x.x.x

James wakes up with red hair in his face.

It takes him a moment to realize where he is and what's happening. On the sofa in his flat, Lily asleep next to him with her head on his chest and her arm slung around his waist. At some point, they must've fallen asleep – he can hear the sound of New Girl still playing on the TV.

James lays there quietly for a while, trying to gather his bearings. Trying to calm his suddenly racing heart and push his mind past the fact that Lily has fallen asleep practically on top of him. He feels like he's burning everywhere she's touching him.

How long has it been? He can't see to the windows over Lily, but the light in the room tells him the sun has set outside.

James lifts his arm over Lily's head to look at his watch. It's nine. They've been asleep for two hours.

"Lily." James gently shakes her shoulder, his voice gruff with sleep. "Lily, get up."

Lily shifts against him, grumbling incoherently. When he shakes her again, she slowly lifts her head. Fuck, she's so cute when she's sleepy – her hair all tussled, a line from a wrinkle in his shirt indented on her cheek, her eyes muddled with sleep. "What time is it?" she mumbles, dropping her head onto his chest again.

"Nine," a voice that isn't James' says.

Lily bolts upright at the same time that James does, the two of them a mess of disoriented limbs. Lily's movements are blind and frantic and her elbow slams into James' nose in the process. James barely has a chance to glare at Sirius, lounging on one of the beanbags with his laptop and watching them with ill-contained amusement, before the pain hits him.

"Ow, _fuck."_ James lifts a hand to his nose, but blood drips through his fingers and onto his shirt and Lily.

" _Shit_." Lily jumps up off the sofa, her hands flying to her hair as she tries to figure out what to do. "Shit, James, I'm so sorry."

James gets up and rushes down the hall to the toilet. Lily is at his side in an instant, offering him a hand towel as he washes the blood off his face in the sink.

"Thanks." James takes the towel from her and holds it against his nose to ebb the flow.

"I'm so sorry," Lily says again, watching him worriedly. She's bouncing on her feet, nervous, unsure of what to do.

"Don't worry, it's – "

"I can't believe I injured James Potter! You're playing a UCL semi-final in a few days! Chelsea's going to _hate me_. Oh fuck, can I get sued for this?"

James bursts out laughing. "It's just a bloody nose, Lily. Calm down. I'm fine."

It doesn't look amazing in the mirror – some blood is beginning to soak through the white towel. But it's just a nosebleed.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Might still sue you though, you ruined my shirt."

Lily shoves James' chest lightly, a nervous laugh escaping her throat. She looks relieved, and lets out a heavy breath.

"Fuck. My heart is pounding." Lily steps up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and moving the towel away from his face with the other. James drops the towel into the sink, his hand dropping limply at his side as Lily gently touches his cheek, avoiding his nose.

 _Mine too_.

The bleeding's stopped, at least.

"Are you sure you're okay? I think this is going to bruise."

"I'm fine, seriously." James steps away from her. "I'm just gonna wash up."

"Okay. I'm gonna go kick Sirius' arse."

James splashes cold water on his face the second she's gone. _Fuck._ He does a shoddy job of cleaning up the mess – he'll get to it later – and washes his hands. Slaps his face in the mirror a few times for good measure before he joins Lily again. _Get a grip._

Back in the living room, Lily is packing up the notes she'd left scattered on the table. Sirius looks completely unbothered, still lounging on his beanbag like both Lily and James aren't glaring at him with death in their eyes.

"You are such a fucking creep," James snaps at him.

Sirius' lips twitch when he glances up. "Good nap, sleeping beauty?"

"How long were you there staring at us?" James asks.

"I wasn't staring at you, I was just here minding my business in my own home. But like five minutes, I just came home."

"You couldn't have just said hello like a normal person?" Lily shoves a calculator into her bag.

"I could've said anything, and you'd still have panicked like lovers caught in the act. I found your mistake in question three, by the way. You forgot to add a constant after the second integration."

Lily looks like she has something to say, but she just pulls her notebook back out of her bag and flips it open. She's ignoring the rest of what Sirius said, though James can't quite do it. _Like lovers in the act._ "Fuck. Are you kidding me? I spent thirty minutes pissed off over _that_?"

Lily _had_ been pretty frustrated (it was really quite cute) – the angry scribble across her lines of work that Sirius must have spotted were proof of that.

"You're very welcome," Sirius says, turning back to his computer.

"Thanks," Lily grumbles unhappily as she shoves the notebook back and zips up her bag. "I should get going, I have an early morning."

"I'll take you home," James offers.

"No, it's alright. You just…" Lily makes vague hand gestures in his general direction. "Rest and take care of your nose."

James stares blankly at her. "My nose is fine. It's getting late, I'll just drive you."

"No, it's okay. It's not that late, I'm alright taking the tube."

James frowns. "Okay. Text when you get home?"

"Yeah." Lily slings her bag over her shoulder. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Lily waves goodbye to them, and heads out.

The moment the door closes behind her, Sirius snaps his laptop shut and puts it on the coffee table. "Okay, what the fuck?"

"What?"

"You don't see how fucking weird that was?" When James only gives him a bored stare, Sirius sighs in frustration. "You can't be friends with someone you fancy this much, James."

James rolls his eyes. "I don't want a lecture on this. It's not a big deal."

"Sleeping next to her doesn't affect you at all?" Sirius asks. When James says nothing, he scoffs smugly. "You need to tell her. You like her, and I'm pretty sure she likes you too. But if she doesn't, you have to stop this."

"I'm not sure how it's any of your business either way," James snaps.

"My bad for looking out for you? This is gonna fuck you up. I don't want you to get hurt."

James squeezes the bridge of his nose. It's still sore, so he drops his hand. Sirius _is_ just looking out for him, he reminds himself. _Calm down_. "I'm not gonna get hurt. It's fine. We're friends."

"I know. But she acts more like your girlfriend than your last actual girlfriend did."

"Mate, you act more like my girlfriend than Cecilia did, it's hardly a feat."

Sirius frowns. "Yeah, she was pretty fucking weird, wasn't she?" He shakes his head, remembering the topic at hand. "But you know what I mean. You're heading into some weird territory with Lily, you're practically her boyfriend."

"I am not," James stubbornly insists. Honestly, who is Sirius to say something so wild and baseless, anyways?

"You drive her home from work, you're always hanging out alone, you spend hours talking to her on the phone when you're out of town, you fall asleep together." Ah. Oh. Hmm. "All I'm saying is you guys need to figure that shit out before it becomes a problem."

"Look, I appreciate the concern, but it's not necessary. Lily and I are close. That's all. It's not an issue."

Sirius looks unconvinced, but he sighs. He's ready to drop it, knowing James' mind won't change now anyways. "I hope not."

What James doesn't say out loud is that he thinks, maybe, if he just gives her a little bit of time… Lily might come around to him after all.

* * *

At Stamford Bridge, the teams walk out onto the pitch to The Liquidator.

Fans chant and clap in time to the song, a rhythm so deeply embedded in James' brain, he can hear it in his sleep. It is his favourite sound in the world, and has been since he was a child in the stands, clapping in sync with forty thousand others as his blue-clad heroes walked out onto the field.

If anything, he loves it even more when he is on the receiving end of it. That song is on his match day playlist, though it's not quite the same as what he hears at the Bridge. Those perfectly timed chants of _Chelsea! Chelsea! Chelsea!_ feature in his dreams. When they walk out to that glorious symphony, he feels like the match is theirs before it's started.

In Turin, the crowd is a sea of black and white. The blue away fans section is loud and passionate as ever, but there's only so much two thousand of them can do to counter forty-thousand screams of " _FORZA JUVE"._ In Turin, the teams walk out to Juventus F.C. fans singing in Italian, and James doesn't know what the words mean, but it's beautiful all the same.

The sound of it washes over James as he watches kick off from the Chelsea bench. He wishes desperately that they had been able to make a greater impact in the first leg at Stamford Bridge two weeks ago – but as it is, the score stands at a meager 1-1. It's anybody's game today.

It's almost a good thing, being the away side with a score like this. If they score more than once, all they need is a tie to advance on away goals – but he knows the fans are half the game. It's not quite as easy to win when the entire stadium wills it the other way. And Juventus fans are willing it the other way loudly, passionately, tens of thousands of fans singing of their club's shining history of successes and singing for another.

James feels sick to his stomach. Usually, at this stage, he has forced the nerves into a small, locked box in the very depths of his psyche. Nothing matters except the task at hand: winning. When he plays, James can drown out supporting and opposing fans alike with practiced concentration. It's something he's trained himself for as thoroughly as taking a penalty kick.

But today, still on the bench when he knows he should have been out on the pitch to start – he'd scored that one goal in the first leg, he has made the most impact, he has trained _so, so_ hard for a start that was all but promised to him – he just feels _sick._

James wills himself to focus, to watch with all the attention he can muster like he always does, so that when he does go out to play, he can make the most of every minute he has.

But today, he knows in his gut it doesn't matter. He's not going to play.

x.x.x.x.x

James can be honest with himself: he has always loved attention.

He loved being an only child and having his parents dote on him constantly. He loved being popular at school. He loved being the centre of attention coming up through Chelsea's Academy. He loved being watched whenever he played football, loved that everyone knew he was special. He loved it when the first team coach and club executives started to take an interest in him, and loved it more still when people outside of Chelsea did.

Despite the stress, some part of him has loved every minute of Chelsea fans and sports reporters and commentators praising him this season, the spike in his celebrity since that Champion's League match that changed his life.

But James has never wanted attention less than he does right now.

God, he is well and truly sick of hearing his own name. Even when he tries to avoid it, when he determinedly stays off the internet, he can't escape it. It's on TV – he can't watch sports channels anymore without hearing _Potter_ and _Coleman._ He has more unanswered texts than he cares to look at, knowing half of them are links to articles he can't let himself read. He'd even been stalked on the street once, and that was… unnerving, to say the least.

But the more he avoids it, the more some small, ugly part of him wants to know, absolutely _craves_ it: _What are they saying now?_ It's distracting, disturbing, deranged.

It was all fine until this week from hell, until Coleman fed the stupid rumours, until he introduced a topic that did matter to James. He could ignore harmless speculation. But after that ultimatum, he constantly wants to know if there's anything new. What has Coleman done now? What do people think now?

And the very worst part: he's craving reassurance. Aguado hasn't addressed it. No one at the club has said anything to Kingsley besides what he'd told James on Tuesday: the situation is complicated, but they're intent on keeping James at Chelsea. If all he can have is fans demanding he stays and reporters saying he probably will, then that's what he'll take.

Still, James knows the dangers of delving into the internet before a match, the damage it can do to his state of mind. He just wants it to end, wants this match over and done with so he can curb his craving and look without it affecting his game tomorrow. But he's starting to think that not knowing might be worse than knowing. Starting to thing the curiosity is more damaging and distracting than anything he could find online.

He couldn't be more wrong. But he doesn't know that until he's already scrolling through his twitter timeline and the mess in his mentions. He regrets it instantly, but the damage is done.

Of course. _Of course._ He should have known, he should have expected this.

The moment he sees the news, it's over. It doesn't matter when Sirius takes the phone from him and pockets it. The moment he knows there's a possibility that Chelsea executives might put him on the back burner to assure Coleman of his place at the club, it's fucking over.

"Don't do this to yourself, mate," Sirius says, concern written all over his face. But James has already done it. And what does it matter what state of mind he's in, anyways?

 _I'm not going to play tomorrow_.

This had all started with the Champion's League quarter final. He'd subbed on for Coleman and changed the game, stolen an opportunity to shine from him. Of course it's going to end here. Coleman's ego needs soothing, and this is where they'll do it.

James thinks back to his conversation with Amar. _"One is a fluke. Two you can call a coincidence. But three? That's all you. They'd be mad to let you go if you got the team to a UCL final in your first season. Not even Coleman can do anything about that."_

Of course. He should have known this was coming. Why else would Coleman have dropped that ultimatum, brought so much drama to the club the week before a match like this? He was forcing their hand, forcing James on the bench before he did something that would cement his place at the club. He should have known, but he'd been so distracted by that damn video, and – _fuck._

That had been by design too, hadn't it? Coleman had been playing this game far longer than James. He wasn't stupid. He knew not to say shit to paparazzi, knew what he said would be worse for him than it would be for James.

Coleman must also have known it would dominate the headlines, push the fact that he'd all but threatened to leave if James stayed out of people's minds for just a little while, and in the meantime, he'd likely kept pushing the club. Coleman had probably been busy sowing this seed while James and everyone else were focused on his stupid, pointless quips.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth all night. He's grateful Sirius is in Turin with him, grateful that Sirius forces him out to explore the city and have some real Italian food. Sirius is a good distraction – he does enough to keep James from laying in his hotel room bed and staring up at the ceiling all night. He does enough to keep James from feeding his anger with more internet dives, or worse: asking Aguado or Coleman himself about the truth of it.

Not quite enough to stop him thinking, though.

 _I'm not going to play tomorrow._

x.x.x.x.x

 _I'm not going to play today._

When Aguado makes the third and final substitution at 82 minutes, James is not surprised. He has not stood up to speak to the manager once – he won't beg for minutes he has already done everything and more to earn. He sees the other bench players, some of the coaches, everyone glancing at him as if to gauge his reaction. He knows there's cameras on him waiting for it, desperate for a bit of a show, but he stays where he is and he keeps his face a rehearsed neutral.

His chest physically _aches_ , watching this game. Watching his teammates lose their chance at this trophy that means everything, that they want and he wants more than anything. Maybe he's been spoiled, expecting a Champion's League trophy in his first season. Although… maybe he's been right to expect it, right to think he could have made the difference (he has so far, hasn't he?), right to be furious right now.

It roars in his blood, his anger. Thunders louder than the fans in the stadium when the ball hits the back of Chelsea's goal and the scoreboard changes to 3-1 for Juventus. Thanks, Mikey, for at least putting one in.

Three minutes of extra time. It's already over, and there's nothing, nothing, _nothing_ anyone can do.

James finally stands up. It feels like an out of body experience, but not in the way it had in February when all he'd felt was blinding euphoria. He wants to stop, knows he should… but suddenly he's standing next to a stone faced, stoic Aguado. He at least has the good sense to cover his mouth when he speaks, aware of cameras on the manager.

"You had me bust a lung in training just to sit and watch us get our arses handed to us?"

Shut up. Shut up shut up _shut up._

Aguado turns to look at James, his expression as unreadable as ever. Maybe he really just has nothing to say for himself, or maybe he's too furious to say anything with this many eyes on him, but he simply turns back to the match. W _hat for?_ James wants to ask. _It's over anyways._ He wants to scream it, actually.

"I hope it was worth it," he says instead, and turns to walk back down the tunnel to their dressing room. He doesn't need a final whistle to tell him they've lost.

James ignores every reporter in the tunnel asking him why he didn't play, how he feels, is he angry? He's barely stepped into the dressing room before his phone is already at his ear.

"Did you know they were going to do this?"

"Of course not," Kingsley says on the other side of the line, already knowing what James is talking about like he always does.

"Have you found out what's going on?" Of course he will have.

"Execs wanted to assure Coleman that he's still the face of the club, still the focal point. They asked… or rather, they _insisted_ Aguado give him this opportunity to prove they have full faith in him."

James only laughs bitterly.

"Tread carefully, James," Kingsley warns. "It's important that you keep yourself in check right now."

"I'm fucking sick of treading carefully for nothing."

"It's not for nothing. Even now, Aguado is being asked why you weren't played. Everyone was asking why you weren't on the starting lineup, now they want to know why you weren't played at all. You've earned yourself a stellar reputation. Don't risk it now. Don't give any interviews today, you need a chance to calm down."

James sighs. "I'm already in the dressing room."

"Good. We'll talk when you get home."

"Okay." James pauses for a moment. "Have you heard anything new from Roma?"

"We're not making a hasty decision while you're angry. We'll talk when you get home."

James squeezes his eyes shut. "Fine. See you soon."

He turns his phone off as soon as he hangs up. He can't handle consolation texts right now.

James changes out of his kit before the other players finally start to file into the room. It's a stark contrast to the scene after the Arsenal match, when he and the boys had chanted and danced and left pools of champagne on the dressing room floor, and he'd been drowned in hugs and high fives and shoulder claps and several kisses to his face.

Now, everyone is glum and quiet as they come in and hit the showers. Disappointment is thick and tangible in the air as they change out of their kits. His friends look devastated and it _hurts_. He knows losses are part of the game, this certainly isn't his first one, but today…

When Coleman comes in and locks eyes with him, something inside of James just… _snaps._

"Proud of your performance?" James asks before he can convince himself not to, his tone snide to his own ears. The others in the dressing room glance between him and Coleman, the little conversation in the room dying out. James has spent months forcing perfect calm, but god, he cannot force himself to care anymore.

Coleman stalks towards him, the hatred on his face as clear as the spring sky outside. Football players fresh off a crushing loss are not people to provoke, James ought to know this better than anyone. "Do you have something to say, Potter?"

James is sure Coleman is expecting him to back down, he knows James has far more on the line than he does. So James stands up and leans back leisurely against the cubby with _Potter_ written across the top. He's a teammate, but fuck him. Coleman didn't consider James a teammate, he was deliberately sabotaging him, and for what? "I'm just wondering if you think having your ego soothed was worth costing the club a Champion's League."

There's a flash of rage on Coleman's face, but he keeps his cool, nothing but a twitch in his jaw and a flexed fist to give him away. James smiles, knowing he's just egging him on. He tries to latch on to the little thread of common sense falling further and further away, but the scowl on Coleman's face is _so_ fucking satisfying. "You think you could have done better?"

"Yeah, I do," James says simply. Foolishly, he knows – is he really so arrogant as to think he alone could have won a match against Juventus? "I have. That's why you threw your little fit, isn't it?"

"This is one of the strongest squads in Europe, not Arsenal."

"And what did you do against Arsenal? I scored in every UCL match I've played."

"How many is that?" Coleman spits. "Three? Four? I've played _dozens."_

"Yes, and what do you have to show for it? No trophies and single handedly costing us this one?"

A few feet down, Jordi pulls a shirt over his head and comes towards them apprehensively, clearly nervous for where this is going.

"You better fucking watch yourself," Coleman hisses, his voice like venom dripping from his throat.

"Or what?" James challenges. "You'll force me on the bench so you can lose another match? All I'm saying is if you're gonna kick up a fuss like that, you'd better fucking deliver."

James smiles, satisfied, _vicious,_ when he sees it in Coleman's eyes: _snap_.

He hardly feels it when Coleman grabs his shoulder and shoves him back, _hard._ Barely feels his head slamming against the shelf behind him.

 _Go on_ , James wants to say. _Let it out_. _Hit me_. Coleman reels back to do just that, fist ready to connect with James' jaw, but Jordi has forced his way between them in a second, and pushes Coleman off him.

Amar chooses that moment to walk in. "What the hell is going on?" he yells, taking in the scene before him: James against the wall, Jordi holding Coleman back, everyone else in the room in various states of rushing towards them. He probably just got done with his presser, and thank god for that. James can't imagine doing this with him watching. He already feels the shame creeping in.

"Nothing," James says. "Just airing out some pent-up feelings." He stares Coleman down, daring him for a contradiction.

Coleman won't admit he physically assaulted a nineteen-year-old teammate, provoked or not. Not when it's a teammate he has publicly expressed his dislike for. A teammate everyone else seems to like just fine. In front of teammates that have never liked him. It helps, not being a prick to everyone. Maybe that's the lesson he'll leave Coleman with.

"Cool it," Amar snaps. He must know there's more to it than that, but the look on his face makes it clear he's not prepared to deal with their shit now. "Now. This is not the time."

Coleman shoves Jordi away with his shoulder and storms towards the showers. James sinks onto the bench.

He feels… lighter. Some of the anger has seeped out of him.

But more than that, he feels dirty. Provoking a _teammate_ after a devastating defeat, dumping all the blame on him when he knows firsthand what that pressure and guilt can do, arrogantly suggesting he could have done better all on his own… he feels fucking dirty. He feels like every arsehole he hates, he just feels like pure shit. He feels _sick._

And he feels like maybe, after all the work he's put in and all he's given up for it, if _this_ is what professional football feels like, he doesn't want it after all.

* * *

Sirius tiptoes around James on Sunday afternoon when they're back at their flat.

Holed up in his hotel room after the match, James had vented everything to Sirius – the prospect of being sidelined for Coleman's sake, the feeling of sitting on that bench and watching it all go down when he had done _everything_ to earn play time, the altercation with Coleman in the dressing room, how shit he'd felt after. How shit he still feels.

Normally, Sirius jokes through every situation. But he's quiet today, and James is grateful for it. He feels oddly fragile, like one wrong statement and he might lose it.

That's why it's well into the evening now, and James has yet to change into proper clothes. All he's done all day is watch New Girl. He's turned off his phone, stayed off the internet, and avoided any news.

This is really the only good thing about the day after a big match, especially if they've lost: he gets a day off. And fuck, does he need a day off. James can't stomach any football today, and he can't shake the overwhelming feeling of disappointment, dread, and fuck him… _sadness_.

Matches have been lost before, he knows that's part of the game, he's not a child and he's certainly not a sore loser. He has sat on the bench until the final whistle has been blown and gone back into the dressing room without a single step on the field before, he knows no one is guaranteed a start or minutes in every single match, that's just the way it is.

But it feels personal this time, and James is sure he's not imagining that. He has spent years learning not to take things personally when it's not personal, he has spent all season carefully keeping himself from getting too excited or too optimistic before things are certain – it's essential for him to be able to stay objective to survive as a football player. But he also knows when he is robbed of something he deserves, and he was robbed of an opportunity in that match yesterday.

Of course there's a good chance that even if he had played, they still would have lost. Despite what he'd said to Coleman in his rage, he's not so arrogant that he thinks he could win a match all alone. Juventus is one of the strongest sides in Europe this season, there's no denying it… but so is Chelsea. And James has been a part of it, more and more lately.

He assisted on one and scored the other crucial goal that got them through to the semifinals. He scored their only goal in the first leg. He's been excellent in training despite Coleman's efforts to derail him, Aguado has been operating on the implication that James and Coleman would both be playing. James had played various positions with Coleman on the left several times in training, presumably for that very purpose.

Regardless of the outcome, James knows he deserved a chance to play in Turin. He knows he wasn't given that chance because Coleman's bruised ego needed soothing. He knows executives, possibly Aguado, sacrificed James' chance at helping Chelsea win a Champion's League to do it. He knows Coleman had set that all up himself, down to orchestrating a distraction.

And then there's the worst part, the things he doesn't know: where does this put him now? Is his place at Chelsea really going to depend on a player who hates him? Is that something he can live with, is this something he can forgive? And… what if he can't? What does he do now? Despite his attempts to ignore anything related to football, it's all he thinks about all day. He thinks in circles all day.

At the very least, if there is any bright side to be found in this, the confrontation with Coleman does not go any further than the moment itself. If anyone at the club caught wind of what happened, James hasn't heard about it. Not that he expected to.

The only person with any interest in pushing it is Coleman, and he won't, because he'd assaulted a younger teammate in front of half the squad. There was no way for him to come out of it looking clean. Anything the club did about it would only bring unwanted media attention to a situation they were obviously trying to diffuse – evidently, with no help from Coleman and his agent – and they would be happy to sweep it under the rug even if someone had heard about it.

James doesn't care. He'd be more than happy to pretend it didn't happen too, if he could shake the vague, omnipresent sense of disgust at himself.

"What are you doing?" James asks Sirius now, narrowing his eyes at his friend. Sirius is pointing his phone camera at James. He's been unnervingly supportive all day, he must be close to cracking – and whatever he's doing now is probably the beginning of it.

"Lily's asking about you since you're not answering your phone. I'm snapping her a progress update." Sirius glances pointedly at James over his phone. "You've made none, by the way."

James pulls an affronted face and sticks up his middle finger. "Fuck off."

Finished recording the video, Sirius mumbles to himself as he types up a caption. "Still in pyjamas, still moody, increasingly impolite."

James decides it's best to ignore him, and turns up the volume. But Sirius won't have it. He gets up, snatches the remote out of James' hand, and turns the TV off.

James doesn't even have the energy to fight him. He only stares up at Sirius sullenly from the sofa. "Why?"

"I've let you wallow and drown in self pity long enough. Get up. Go outside. Go to the gym. Just get the fuck out of my sight."

"Why don't _you_ leave and get me out of your sight instead?"

"I was out for three hours and you were literally in the exact same position when I came back."

"Watching TV doesn't require much movement."

"I texted Lily and told her to come get you, she's gonna be here in like twenty minutes and if you don't go shower right now, she's gonna see you looking like a dirty slug."

James sits up immediately. "What the fuck happened to _your friendship with Lily is weird and you're going to die?"_

"Desperate times, desperate measures and etcetera. You'll thank me later."

Maybe, but in the present, all James offers him is a rude gesture and a vicious glower as he drags himself off the sofa and to the shower. Damn Sirius for getting right to his weakness. Damn _him_ for being so fucking easy.

To James' dismay though, once he has showered and dressed, he does immediately feel significantly better. He doesn't admit it to Sirius, but he doesn't need to – Sirius looks infuriatingly smug anyways.

"I have dinner plans," Sirius tells him once he's finished gloating about being right and superior. "Are you gonna be okay on your own until Lily gets here, son?"

James rolls his eyes. "Fuck off. What plans?"

"Just dinner. With some friends."

"What friends?" James presses, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

"Why, are you upset I have friends besides you?" Sirius fiddles with the volume buttons on his phone.

"How many friends?"

"Um, like, two?"

James snorts. "Just say you're going to Hestia's. Honestly, I can't believe you have the nerve to tell me my being friends with Lily is a problem when _you_ have the most fucked up relationship of all time."

Sirius stares pointedly at him. "This is why I didn't just say I'm going to Hestia's."

"If you're gonna be a hypocrite, I'm going to obnoxiously bring it up every single time it's even slightly relevant."

"I'm not being a hypocrite. I _know_ my relation… er, my _thing_ with Hestia is unhealthy."

"You've known her for _years_ and you can't even call it a relationship?"

"It's not a relationship," Sirius insists, with a shrug that's not quite casual.

James raises an eyebrow. "Okay. So like, what if I told you Hestia was in a relationship with someone else? It wouldn't bother you?"

"You're kidding though, right? Like this is a hypothetical question so you can say _aha_ when I admit I'd be pissed?"

James' lips twitch. " _Aha."_

"Whatever," Sirius snaps, his tone approaching defensive. "Unlike you and Lily, _we_ at least know what we are."

"Hm? And what's that? What are you?"

Sirius pauses for a beat. "Close friends who… erm. Have dinner. And sometimes breakfast. Together. And occasionally like… sleep over and… have some fun?"

James fights the urge to laugh. "So you're in a relationship?"

"No."

"Do either of you do that with anybody else?"

"No."

"Would you be alright with it if she did do it with somebody else?"

"…No."

"Do _you_ wanna do it with anybody else?"

"No?"

"Ah. So you're in a relationship."

" _No._ " There's a knock at the door and Sirius grins, though James doesn't miss the relief on his face. Saved. "Your girlfriend who doesn't know she's your girlfriend is here. I'll get the door. Bye!"

"Bye. You should tell your girlfriend that you're her boyfriend, just by the way."

"Go fuck yourself," Sirius grumbles on his way out of the living room. "And go back to being sad."

James laughs as he leaves, feeling a little cheered up already. He hears the door close and a moment later, Lily walks into the living room. James feels the familiar little stutter in his chest that always happens when he sees her. It's no big deal, just denial things.

"I just saw Sirius looking more flustered than he's probably ever been in his life," Lily tells him as she walks over to hug him. "What did you say to him?"

"Just some things that he needed to hear."

"What things?"

"Sirius things. How're you?"

"Good." Lily steps back and looks him over, her expression vaguely concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Really? Yesterday was rough."

"Yeah. But it's okay. It happens. We can't win everything and the season's not over yet, we're still on track for the league title." A reminder to himself, more than anything.

"I know, not that. You didn't play."

James sighs deeply and runs a hand through his hair. "That happens sometimes too. I dunno. I tried not to read too much into it, but with everything that's going on…" he trails off and shrugs. "Whatever. I'll talk to Aguado tomorrow, try to figure out what happened. But I don't wanna think about it now."

"Of course." Lily grins and claps her hands together. "You know what we need? Greasy chips and chocolate shakes."

"No. I can't eat like shit when I'm upset or my brain will think that's what I get to do every time I'm down, and I'm down all the time, so then I'll get fat and the extra weight will kill my speed and if I'm not fast I'm really not that special and next thing you know Chelsea kicks me out and my career is over."

Lily rolls her eyes. "I wish you operated on a normal level of drama at least _sometimes_. One milkshake is not going to derail your career, come on."

"Fine, but if it does, you'll be responsible."

x.x.x.x.x

Even if one milkshake does derail his career, James thinks it might actually be worth it. Shit, he'd forgotten just how good a chocolate shake could be ( _Really_ fucking good. Spiritual, even. _Healing_.).

It's got him thinking about how he misses the simple things in life, this milkshake. Like sleeping in instead of going to the gym. Or eating chips whenever he wants. Eating anything good, really. And is it even worth it, if he's just going to sit on the bench anyways? No one will notice if he puts on just a _little_ weight.

"You look like you want to cry," Lily says, watching him from the other side of the booth they're seated in.

"I do. I forgot how good this is."

Lily is quiet for a moment before she asks, "When you said you're down all the time, was that just part of your dramatics or are you really?"

James shrugs. "A little of both. It's not a big deal. I'm just…" he shrugs. "This whole thing, like the football thing… it's just not as much fun anymore as I always thought it would be."

"Because of Coleman?"

"Yes. But not only him. It's… I dunno. Whatever. I'm literally living every English kid's dream and whining about it."

"You're not whining. Everybody needs to vent sometimes. So vent."

"I'm having a chocolate milkshake, I'm too happy to vent about anything right now." Too tired to think about how hard it actually is, to give up everything – time with his friends, time for _anything_ really, a relationship with his father, everything down to milkshakes – for something that might be ripped from him on a moment's notice, no matter what he does.

Lily chuckles. "Okay." She pauses for a moment, eyeing him wearily. "So you've really not looked at anything online? At all?"

James looks up from his milkshake. "Yeah. Why?"

The dread he feels must show on his face, because Lily immediately says, "It's nothing bad, don't worry! Just kind of… maybe funny?"

"Funny how?" James asks wearily, about ready to crawl under the table and never emerge. Please, nothing else. Not now, not this week.

"I'll just show you."

James waits anxiously as Lily pulls up whatever she'd seen on her phone and hands it to him.

The article is titled _James Potter's Mystery Girl_ and is accompanied by pictures of… him and Lily? There's several pictures of the two of them walking down the street in various stages of smiling or laughing. James recognizes the street in the photo as one he often parks on when he goes to The Rabbit Hole. In a couple of the photos, James has his arm around her shoulder. In a few others, they're pictured getting into his car. All of them look like cellphone pictures, so he's assuming someone took pictures and sold them to the tabloids.

A quick skim of the article tells him they'd come to what seemed like the obvious conclusion: they're a couple. The article cites an 'anonymous source' that evidently doesn't exist, because they claim he and his _mystery lady_ have been "seeing each other for months and are ready to take the relationship to the next level". To be fair, the pictures do them no favours… but the blatant lies in the article are just annoying.

He cringes when he's done and passes the phone back to Lily. "Shit, Lily. I'm sorry."

Lily shakes her head. "Obviously it's not your fault. People just don't have any regard for your privacy."

"Yeah, but I signed up for it. You didn't."

"You have a publicist, right? Can you ask her to just…" Lily waves her hand in the air. "You know?"

James' lips twitch. "Wave it away with her magic wand?"

"Come on, you know what I mean."

"I mean usually if it's harmless we just ignore it and let it disappear. If we say anything it just makes it a topic, people keep talking about it."

"Maybe it's harmless to you, but I don't want a bunch of girls who are obsessed with you to hunt me down online or something. I don't really want pictures of me online at all, actually."

"Right, sorry. That's fair." James takes his phone out of his pocket. "I'll text Pri now and ask her if there's anything she can do."

"Thank you. It's not the end of the world if there's nothing to be done, but I'd appreciate her trying."

"Yeah, of course."

Lily tilts her head. "Did we look like a couple in the pictures?"

"I guess a little?"

"It's kind of weird, don't you think?"

"My concept of weird might be a little muddled at this point. They just saw me out with a girl and immediately assumed she was my girlfriend."

"It's stupid. Like a guy and a girl can't ever just be friends?"

James shrugs. "Of course, _we_ are. But that's not what makes them money."

"I just think it's really nice that you and I are close and there's nothing weird about it."

James takes a sip of his milkshake. "Yeah, me too."

"Especially because at first it seemed like it wasn't gonna work out that way, I obviously had a little bit of a crush. But it just goes to show you, every time you meet a cool and attractive person doesn't mean you have to try to date them, you know?"

"Too true," James says hollowly. He can't even enjoy her confirming she'd had a crush. All the words surrounding it are… pointedly leaning in the other direction.

"Sometimes a guy and a girl really are just better off as friends."

James forces out a laugh, to stifle his urge to scream or something. "Okay, Lily. I get it, we are two friends who are only friends and it's great and not weird."

Lily smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. I just got worked up because I've felt so weird about these articles."

"It's really weird anytime I'm written about, I understand. But try not to let it get to you, everyone knows it's bullshit. And tomorrow something more exciting and scandalous will happen and this will get buried in the festering depths of the internet, never to be talked about again."

"Hm. I just hope the new and exciting scandal isn't anything to do with you."

James laughs. "Fuck, me too."

And they jump back into regular conversation again, like she hasn't just crushed him. What nonsense their friends are up to and plans for the coming summer and other nothings. But James doesn't fall into it like he usually does. He pushes himself and then holds his head there by force.

All he's really thinking about is Lily's very blatant rejection of an advance he hadn't even made. _We're friends. Friends and nothing else, do you understand? And while we're here, you should know we'll only ever be friends and nothing else, so don't even think about it. Anyways, so did you watch that movie I told you about?_

He feels a little blindsided. This is the same Lily who falls asleep talking to him on the phone, who tells him everything first, who said he makes her better. The same Lily who makes him tea and remembers all the smoothie combinations he likes and gives him those long, tender looks and runs her fingers through his hair and falls asleep on his chest… had he been crazy to read anything into any of that?

Was he just being a dick, presuming things she'd done as his friend held anymore weight than that? She'd said she wanted to be his friend and he'd been alright with that (or thought he was, at least), sure. But things could change, and he'd started to think that maybe she was…

But never mind. Clearly, nothing had changed. And it never would. She'd just made that very, very clear.

He feels silly to feel so stung, but he can't help it, he does. Stung, deflated, confused. It feels like another kick in the gut from the shitty week that won't stop giving.

x.x.x.x.x

Time with Lily has never gone as slowly as it does after that crushing conversation.

Normally, James never tires of hearing her voice and her stories. He could spend all night talking to her, and has to tear himself away to get to whatever he needs to do, because unfortunately he didn't exist in a bubble with just him and Lily. Tonight though, he feels thoroughly relieved when she finally gets out of his car and walks into her building and he can stop pretending to be cheerful and unaffected.

The drive home is hazy, though. He's playing through the week all over again, his thoughts running in circles once again, but this time with a new addition. And suddenly he's pulling into his parking spot at home, not sure how he even got here.

He's tired of thinking about football and Chelsea and Coleman and Lily. Tired of thinking himself to death, tired of giving everything he's got when it doesn't matter what he does, Chelsea will choose Coleman anyways and he'll be a permanent bench player. Tired of lying to himself about feelings Lily doesn't return. He's just fucking tired and he…

James stares hard at the steering wheel, idly tracing his finger over the four silver rings at the center of it.

He wants to talk to his dad. He wants to vent everything to him, like he used to do, get it off his chest. He wants to hear his father tell him it's fine, everything's going to be fine, this is what you need to do. He wants to listen quietly as his father gives him a plan in that calming, subtly commanding voice he has and he wants to feel reassured and at ease and ready to fix it when he hangs up.

James turns off the ignition. In the dark of the car, the only light comes from his phone screen.

There's no chance James will get the long, heartfelt conversation he's been aching for for months. None at all, and he knows it, and he should just pocket his phone and go upstairs and go the fuck to sleep. But the need for his father's reassurance and guidance or just a little bit of his affection is blinding, overwhelming. Maybe it won't be everything he wants, but it will be something.

 _I'm his son_ , James reminds himself. _I'm his son. He loves me. If I need him, he'll help me._ He's sure of it. _It's just dad._

Before he can talk himself out of it, James hits the call icon next to _Dad_ , puts the phone on speaker, and sets it on the arm rest. It rings a few times, and then his father answers, and there's no going back. He has to speak to him now. Shit.

"Hi dad," he says.

"James. How are you?" That little trace of surprise at hearing from him is there, as always.

James bites down the urge to say _I'm fine_ like has become his default on the rare occasion when he's talking to his father – literally bites his tongue. _He's your father. Tell him the truth._ "I'm… I've had a really long week."

There's a moment of silence. His father must be shocked to hear something besides _I'm fine_ too. Finally, when the fear of being shut down by his own father is beginning to become unbearable, he asks, "Are you alright?" _Oh. See, that wasn't so bad._

"I don't know." James swallows. "Everything is just… harder than I was expecting."

A pause. "You're shocked to find that a career as a football player is not straight and easy?"

"No, of course not," James says, a nervous quiver in his voice. "I've just – "

"This is what I warned you about, James, but you told me you knew what you were signing up for."

James closes his eyes, squeezes them tight. "I did. I do."

"Then what's the problem? Everything's not aligning for you, it's not all straightforward and easy, so you've had it?"

"What?" Fuck him, why is he doing this to himself? " _No_ , of course not. It was just a tough week, and I – "

"I gave you a choice, and you chose." Has his father's tone always been so harsh, so unforgiving? "You decided to pursue this despite my insistence that you don't, you threw away your opportunity to get a university education in pursuit of a childish dream, and you claimed you could do it with or without me, did you not?"

James' heart thumps painfully. "No, actually. _You_ told me to do it without you."

"And you agreed to those terms. So what would you like from me now?"

"Nothing. I don't want anything."

"What did you call for?"

"I don't know, a bit of support from my father?"

A beat. "You're an adult," Fleamont says. "Handle your problems like an adult."

James picks up his phone, ready to hang up. "Right. Okay."

"And while we're on the subject, please keep the Sleekeazy name out of the press. We have enough to deal with without handling your PR messes too."

James almost laughs. "I wasn't the one to bring up Sleekeazy."

"And yet somehow you've already blundered your way into a mess we've been dragged into. I understand associating yourself with a reputable brand can help your image but – "

He feels a flash of rage, but reels it in. Whether it's because he doesn't want to make this worse or he's just too tired to keep being angry, he doesn't know. "You think being associated with your company _helps_ me? I told you I didn't bring it up."

"Then do a better job of keeping it out of the press."

"Goodnight, dad."

"James – " James hangs up.

He's glad he's sitting in a dark parkade when he finds that, embarrassingly, his eyes are wet. Fighting the burning in his throat, James climbs out of the car and makes his way upstairs. It's still early, but he climbs into bed right away anyways. He can feel a headache coming on.

Every bit of exhaustion from the week weighs down on James as he lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling, but it's a welcome heaviness. A heaviness too dense to let any thoughts he no longer wants to think through, and his eyelids fall closed underneath it. James is ready to sleep on this week and all the way through the next one.

* * *

 **A/N:** Phew. Okay. So. Hope y'all enjoyed my little novella. Also, I'm sorry. (To my son James, especially)

(But also, pls leave comments, I love reading your thoughts and they motivate me to write more mammoth chapters. Also come talk to me on tumblr (moonawrites) I'm vain and love talking about my own work).

As always, thank you so much for reading.


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